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FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
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FLORENCE 

AND  THE   CITIES   OF   NORTHERN  TUSCANY 
WITH    GENOA 


FROM     run    LIIIZI 


FLORENCE 

AND  THE  CITIES  OF  NORTHERN 
TUSCANY,  WITH  GENOA 


EDWARD    HUTTON 


O  rosa  delle  rose  O  rosa  bella 

Per  te  non  dormo  nh  notte  ne  giomo 

E  sempre  penso  alia  tua  faccia  bella 

Alle  grazia  che  hai,  faccio  ritorno 

Faccio  ritorno  alle  grazic  che  hai 

Ch'io  ti  lasci,  amor  mio,  non  creder  mai. 


WITH   SIXTEEN   ILLUSTRATIONS   IN   COLOUR   BV 

WILLIAM   PARKINSON 

AND  SIXTEEN   OTHER   ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW    YORK 

THE     MACMILLAN     COMPANY 

1907 


College 
Library 


T)Cr 

733 

H  ^  7 

^7 


o 


TO 

MY     FRIEND 

WILLIAM      HEY  WOOD 


I'llOlDO 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PACK 

I.   GENOA  .......  I 

II.   ON   THE  WAY              .                .                .                .                .  •        41 

III.  PORTO   VENERE          .                 .                 .                 .                 .  -54 

IV.  SARZANA  AND  LUNA               .                .                .                .  •         57 
V.   CARRARA,    MASSA   DUCALE,    PIETRA  SANTA,    VIAREGGIO  .        65 

VI.    PISA  .......         77 

VII.    LIVORNO        .  .  .  .  .  .129 

VIII.   TO  SAN    MINIATO  AL  TEDESCO  .  .  -134 

IX.    EMPOLI,    MONTELUPO,   LASTRA,   SIGNA         .  .  .142 

X.    FLORENCE     .  .  .  .  .  .  .       15O 

XI.   PIAZZA   DEI.LA  SIGNORIA  AND   PALAZZO  VECCHIO  .       161 

XII.     THE    BAPTISTERY — THE    DUOMO — THE    CAMPANILE— THE 

OPERA   DEL   DUOMO        .....       169 

XIII.  OR  SAN   MICHELE      .  .  .  .  .  .      185 

XIV.  PALAZZO   RICCARDI,    AND  THE   RISE  OF  THE   MEDICI        .         I94 
XV.    SAN   MARCO  AND  SAVONAROLA         ....      2o6 

XVI.    SANTA   MARIA   NOVELLA        .  .  .  .  219 

XVII.    SANTA  CROCE  ......  228 

XVIII.   SAN   LORENZO  .......  239 

XIX.    CHURCHES   NORTH    OK   ARNO  ....  249 

XX.  oltr'arno  ......  264 


viii     FLORENCE   AND   NORTHERN  TUSCANY 


CHAP. 

XXI.   TUB  BARGELLO 
XXII.    THE   ACCADEMIA 

XXIII.  THE    UFFIZI 

XXIV.  THE    PITTI    GALLERY 
XXV.    FIESOLE  AND  SETTIGNANO 

XXVI.    VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO 
XXVII.    PRATO  .... 

XXVIII.    PISTOJA  .... 

XXIX.    LUCCA  .... 

XXX.    OVER   THE  GARFAGNANA      . 


276 
298 
310 

346 
360 
385 

393 
404 

423 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


IN   COLOUR 
VIEW   FROM   THE   UFFIZI 
ON   THE    ROAD 
BADIA   AL   SETTIMO     . 
PONTB  VECCHIO 
LOGGIA  DE'  LANZI      . 
PIAZZA   DEL   DUOMO    . 
OR   SAN    MICHELE 
THE  FLOWER   MARKET,   FLORENCE 
CHIOSTRO   DI    S.    MARCO 
S.    MARIA   NOVELLA 
OGNISANTI 
VIA   POR   S,    MARIA 
PONTE   VECCHIO 
THE   BOBOLI   GARDENS 
OUTSIDE   THE   GATE    . 
PORTA    DI    S.    GIORGIO 


.    Frontispiece 

Facing  page  44 

>> 

146 

162 

170 
186 

lENCE    . 

• 

196 

»» 

206 
220 
250 

254 

264 
270 
347 
348 

IN   MONOTONE 

PORTO  VENERK  ...... 

I'ISA     ........ 

WAX     MODEL      FOR      THE      PERSEUS      IN     THE     BARGKLLO, 
KKNVKNUTO   CELLINI        ..... 


54 

78 

166 


X     FLORENCE   AND   NORTHERN   TUSCANY 

THR    MADONNA     DKLLA    CINTOLA,    BY    NANNI    DI    BANCO, 

DUOMO,  FLORENCB         ....         Facing  pc^  i8o 

SINGING     BOYS     FROM     THE    CANTORIA     OF     LUCA    DBLLA 

ROBBIA   IN   OPERA  DEL  DUOMO,   FLORENCE        .  .         ,,  1 86 

THE  CRUCIFIXION,  BY  FRA  ANGBLICO  S.  MARCO,  FLORENCE         „  2IO 

ST.   JOHN  THE  DIVINE,  BY  DONATELLO,  DUOMO,   FLORENCE         „  284 

THE  LADY  WITH  THE  NOSEGAY  (VANNA  TORNABUONi),   IN 

THE  BARGELLO,   BY  ANDREA  VERROCCHIO  .  .         ,,  292 

"  LA     NOTTE,"    FROM    TOMB     OF     GIULIANO     DE'    MEDICI, 

BY  MICHELANGELO  .  .  .  .  .         1,  296 

THE     ADORATION     OF     THE     SHEPHERDS,      BY      DOMENICO 

GHIRLANDAJO,    ACCADEMIA  .  .  .  .         „  302 

THE  THREE  GRACES,   FROM   THE   PRIMAVERA,    BY    SANDRO 

BOTICELLI,    ACCADEMIA  .  .  .  .         ,,  308 

THE    BIRTH    OF    VENUS,     BY    SANDRO    BOTICELLI,    UFFIZI 

GALLERY  ......,,  316 

THE     ANNUNCIATION,    BY     ANDREA     VERROCCHIO,     UFFIZI 

GALLERY  .  .  .  .  .  •  ,,  318 

PIETA,    BY   FRA   BARTOLOMMEO,    PITTI   GALLERY       .  •         ,,  338 

THE  TOMB  OF    ILARIA    DEL    CARETPO,     BY    JACOPO    DELLA 

QUERCIA,    DUOMO,    LUCCA  .  .  .  .  ,,  412 

THE  TOMB  OF  THE   MARTYR    S.    ROMANO    IN    S.     ROMANO, 

LUCCA,    BY   MATTEO   CIVITALI     .  .  .  .,,418 


y 


FLORENCE   AND  THE   CITIES 
OF   NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

I 
GENOA 

I 

THE  traveller  who  on  his  way  to  Italy  passes  along  the 
Riviera  di  Ponente,  through  Marseilles,  Nice,  and 
Mentone  to  Ventimiglia,  or  crossing  the  Alps  touches  Italian 
soil,  though  scarcely  Italy  indeed,  at  Turin,  on  coming  to 
Genoa  finds  himself  really  at  last  in  the  South,  the  true  South, 
of  which  Genoa  la  Superba  is  the  gate,  her  narrow  streets, 
the  various  life  of  her  port,  her  picturesque  colour  and  dirt, 
her  immense  palaces  of  precious  marbles,  her  oranges  and 
pomegranates  and  lemons,  her  armsful  of  children,  and  above 
all  the  sun,  which  lends  an  eternal  gladness  to  all  these 
characteristic  or  delightful  things,  telling  him  at  once  that  the 
North  is  far  behind,  that  even  Cisalpine  Gaul  is  crossed  and 
done  with,  and  that  here  at  last  by  the  waves  of  that  old  and 
great  sea  is  the  true  Italy,  that  beloved  and  ancient  land  to 
which  we  owe  almost  everything  that  is  precious  and  valuable 
in  our  lives,  and  in  which  still,  if  we  be  young,  we  may  find  all 
our  dreams.  What  to  us  are  the  weary  miles  of  Eastern 
France  if  we  came  by  road,  the  dreadful  tunnels  full  of  despair 
and  filth  if  we  came  by  rail,  now  that  we  have  at  last  returned 
to  her,  or  best  of  all,  perhaps,  found  her  for  the  first  time  in 
I 


2      FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  spring  at  twenty-one  or  so,  like  a  fair  woman  forlorn  upon 
the  mountains,  the  Ariadne  of  our  race  who  placed  in  our 
hand  the  golden  thread  that  led  us  out  of  the  cavern  of  the 
savage  to  the  sunlight  and  to  her.  But  though,  indeed,  I 
think  all  this  may  be  clearer  to  those  who  come  to  her  in 
their  first  youth  by  the  long  white  roads  with  a  song  on 
their  lips  and  a  dream  in  their  hearts — for  the  song  is 
drowned  by  the  iron  wheels  that  doubtless  have  their  own 
music,  and  the  dream  is  apt  to  escape  in  the  horror  of  the 
night  imprisoned  with  your  fellows ;  still,  as  we  are  so  quick 
to  assure  ourselves,  there  are  other  ways  of  coming  to  Italy 
than  on  foot :  in  a  motor-car,  for  instance,  our  own  modern 
way,  ah  1  so  much  better  than  the  train,  and  truly  almost  as 
good  as  walking.  For  there  is  the  start  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, the  sweet  fresh  air  of  the  fields  and  the  hills,  the  long 
halt  at  mid-day  at  the  old  inn,  or  best  of  all  by  roadside, 
the  afternoon  full  of  serenity,  that  gradually  passes  into  the 
excitement  and  eager  expectancy  of  the  approach  to  some 
unknown  town ;  and  every  night  you  sleep  in  a  new  place, 
and  every  morning  the  joy  of  the  wanderer  is  yours.  You 
never  "find  yourself"  in  any  city,  having  won  to  it  through 
many  adventures,  nor  ever  are  you  too  far  away  from  the 
place  you  lay  at  on  the  night  before.  And  so,  as  you  pass 
on  and  on  and  on,  till  the  road  which  at  first  had  entranced 
you,  wearies  you,  terrifies  you,  relentlessly  opening  before 
you  in  a  monstrous  white  vista,  and  you  who  began  by 
thinking  little  of  distance  find,  as  I  have  done,  that  only  the 
roads  are  endless,  even  for  you  too  the  endless  way  must  stop 
when  it  comes  to  the  sea ;  and  there  you  have  won  at  last  to 
Italy,  at  Genoa. 

If  you  come  by  Ventimiglia,  starting  early,  all  the  afternoon 
that  white  vision  will  rise  before  you  like  some  heavenly  city, 
very  pure  and  full  of  light,  beckoning  you  even  from  a  long 
way  off  across  innumerable  and  lovely  bays,  splendid  upon 
the  sea.  While  if  you  come  from  Turin,  it  is  only  at  sun- 
set you  will  see  her,  suddenly  in  a  cleft  of  the  mountains, 
the  sun  just  gilding  the  Pharos  before  night  comes  over  the 


GENOA  3 

sea,  opening  like  some  great  flower  full  of  coolness  and 
fragrance. 

It  was  by  sea  that  John  Evelyn  came  to  Genoa  after  many 
adventures ;  and  though  we  must  be  content  to  forego  much 
of  the  surprise  and  romance  of  an  advent  such  as  that,  yet 
for  us  too  there  remain  many  wonderful  things  which  we  may 
share  with  him.  The  waking  at  dawn,  for  instance,  for  the 
first  time  in  the  South,  with  the  noise  in  our  ears  of  the  bells 
of  the  mules  carrying  merchandise  to  and  from  the  ships  in 
the  Porto )  the  sudden  delight  that  we  had  not  felt  or 
realised,  weary  as  we  were  on  the  night  before,  at  finding 
ourselves  really  at  last  in  the  way  of  such  things,  the  shouting 
of  the  muleteers,  the  songs  of  the  sailors  getting  their  ships 
in  gear  for  the  seas,  the  blaze  of  sunlight,  the  pleasant  heat, 
the  sense  of  everlasting  summer.  These  things,  and  so  much 
more  than  these,  abide  for  ever;  the  splendour  of  that 
ancient  sea,  the  gesture  of  the  everlasting  mountains,  the 
calmness,  joy,  and  serenity  of  the  soft  sky. 

Something  like  this  is  what  I  always  feel  on  coming  to  that 
proud  city  of  palaces,  a  sort  of  assurance,  a  spirit  of  delight. 
And  in  spite  of  all  Tennyson  may  have  thought  to  say,  for  me 
it  is  not  the  North  but  the  South  that  is  bright  *'  and  true  and 
tender."  For  in  the  North  the  sky  is  seldom  seen  and  is 
full  of  clouds,  while  here  it  stretches  up  to  God.  And  then, 
the  South  has  been  true  to  all  her  ancient  faiths  and  works, 
to  the  Catholic  religion,  for  instance,  and  to  agriculture,  the 
old  labour  of  the  com  and  the  wine  and  the  oil,  while  we  are 
gone  after  Luther  and  what  he  leads  to,  and,  forsaking  the 
fields,  have  taken  to  minding  machines. 

And  so,  in  some  dim  way  I  cannot  explain,  to  come  to 
Italy  is  like  coming  home,  as  though  after  a  long  journey 
one  were  to  come  suddenly  upon  one's  mistress  at  a  corner 
of  the  lane  in  a  shady  place. 

It  is  perhaps  with  some  such  joy  in  the  heart  as  this  that 
the  fortunate  traveller  will  come  to  Genoa  the  Proud,  by  the 
sea,  lying  on  the  bosom  of  the  mountains,  whiter  than  the  foam 
of  her  waves,  the  beautiful  gate  of  Italy. 


4      FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

II 

The  history  of  Genoa,  its  proud  and  adventurous  story,  is 
almost  wholly  a  tale  of  the  sea,  full  of  mystery,  cruelty,  and 
beauty,  a  legend  of  sea  power,  a  romance  of  ships.  It  is 
a  narrative  in  which  sailors,  half  merchants,  half  pirates, 
adventurers  every  one,  put  out  from  the  city  and  return  laden 
with  all  sorts  of  spoil, — gold  from  Africa,  slaves  from  Tunis 
or  Morocco,  the  booty  of  the  Crusades ;  with  here  the  vessel 
of  the  Holy  Grail  bought  at  a  great  price,  there  the  stolen  dust 
of  a  great  Saint. 

This  spirit  of  adventure,  which  established  the  power  of 
Genoa  in  the  East,  which  crushed  Pisa  and  almost  overcame 
Venice,  was  held  in  check  and  controlled  by  the  spirit  of  gain, 
the  dream  of  the  merchant,  so  that  Columbus,  the  very  genius 
of  adventure,  almost  without  an  after-thought,  though  a  Geno- 
ese, was  not  encouraged,  was  indeed  laughed  at ;  and  Genoa, 
splendid  in  adventure  but  working  only  for  gain,  unable  on 
this  account  to  establish  any  permanent  colony,  losing 
gradually  all  her  possessions,  threw  to  the  Spaniard  the 
dominion  of  the  New  World,  just  because  she  was  not  worthy 
of  it.  Men  have  called  her  Genoa  the  Proud,  and  indeed 
who,  looking  on  her  from  the  sea  or  the  sea-shore,  will  ever 
question  her  title  ? — but  the  truth  is,  that  she  was  not  proud 
enough.  She  trusted  in  riches ;  for  her,  glory  was  of  no 
account  if  gold  were  not  added  to  it  If  she  entered  the  first 
Crusade  as  a  Christian,  it  was  really  her  one  disinterested 
action ;  and  all  the  world  acknowledged  her  valour  and  her 
contrivance  which  won  Jerusalem.  But  in  the  second 
Crusade,  as  in  the  next,  she  no  longer  thought  of  glory  or  of 
the  Tomb  of  Jesus,  she  was  intent  on  money ;  and  since  in 
that  stony  place  but  little  booty  could  be  hoped  for,  she  set 
herself  to  spoil  the  Christian,  to  provide  him  at  a  price  with 
ships,  with  provender,  with  the  means  of  realising  his  dream, 
a  dream  at  which  she  could  afford  to  laugh,  secure  as  she  was 
in  the  possession  of  this  world's  goods.  Then,  when  in  the 
thirteenth  century  those  vast  multitudes  of  soldiers,  monks, 


GENOA  15 

dreamers,  beggars,  and  adventurers  came  to  her,  the  port  for 
Palestine,  clamouring  for  transports,  she  was  sceptical  and 
even  scornful  of  them,  but  willing  to  give  them  what  they 
demanded,  not  for  the  love  of  God  but  for  a  price.  Even  that 
beautiful  and  mysterious  army  of  children  which  came  to 
her  from  France  and  Germany  in  1212  seeking  Jesus,  she 
could  hold  in  contempt  till,  wearying  at  last  of  feeding  them,  she 
found  the  galleys  they  demanded,  and  in  the  loneliness  of  the 
sea  betrayed  them  and  sold  them  for  gold  as  slaves  to  the  Arabs, 
so  that  of  the  seven  thousand  boys  and  girls  led  by  a  lad  of 
thirteen  who  came  at  the  bidding  of  a  voice  to  Genoa,  not 
one  ever  returned,  nor  do  we  hear  anything  further  concerning 
them  but  the  rumour  of  their  fate. 

Thus  Genoa  appears  to  us  of  old  and  now,  too,  as  a  city  of 
merchants.  She  crushed  Pisa  lest  Pisa  should  become  richer 
than  herself;  she  went  out  against  the  Moors  for  Castile 
because  of  a  whisper  of  the  booty ;  she  sought  to  overthrow 
Venice  because  she  competed  with  her  trade  in  the  East ;  and 
to-day  if  she  could  she  would  fill  up  the  harbour  of  Savona 
with  stones,  as  she  did  in  the  sixteenth  century,  because 
Savona  takes  part  of  her  trade  from  her.  What  Philip  of  Spain 
did  for  God's  sake,  what  Visconti  did  for  power,  which  Cesare 
Borgia  did  for  glory,  Genoa  has  done  for  gold.  She  is  a 
merchant  adventurer.  Her  true  work  was  the  Bank  of  St. 
George.  One  of  the  most  glorious  and  splendid  cities  of  Italy, 
she  is,  almost  alone  in  that  home  of  humanism,  without  a 
school  of  art  or  a  poet  or  even  a  philosopher.  Her  heroes 
are  the  great  admirals,  and  adventurers — Spinola,  Doria, 
Grimaldi,  Fieschi,  men  whose  names  linger  in  many  a  ruined 
castle  along  the  coast  and  of  old  met  piracy  with  piracy. 
Even  to-day  a  Grimaldi  spoils  Europe  at  Monaco,  as  his 
ancestors  did  of  old. 

One  saint  certainly  of  her  own  stock  she  may  claim,  St. 
Catherine  Adorni,  born  in  1447.  ,  But  the  Renaissance  passed 
her  by,  giving  her,  it  is  true,  by  the  hands  of  an  alien,  the 
streets  of  splendid  palaces  we  know,  but  neither  churches  nor 
pictures ;  such  paintings  as  she  possesses  being  the  sixteenth 


6      FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

century    work    of    foreigners,    Rubens,    Vandyck,    Ribera, 
Sanchez  Coello,  and  maybe  Velasquez. 

Yet  barren  though  she  is  in  art,  at  least  Genoa  has  ever 
been  fulfilled  with  life.  If  her  aim  was  riches  she  attained 
it,  and  produced  much  that  was  worth  having  by  the  way. 
Without  the  appeal  of  Florence  or  Siena  or  Venice  or  Rome, 
she  is  to-day,  when  they  are  passed  away  into  dreams  or  have 
become  little  more  than  museums,  what  she  has  ever  been, 
a  city  of  business,  the  greatest  port  in  the  Mediterranean,  a 
city  full  of  various  life, — here  a  touch  of  the  East,  there  a 
whisper  of  the  West,  a  busy,  brutal,  picturesque  city,  beauty 
growing  up  as  it  does  in  London,  suddenly  for  a  moment  out 
of  the  life  of  the  place,  not  made  or  contrived  as  in  Paris  or 
Florence,  but  naturally,  a  living  thing,  shy  and  evanescent. 
Here  poverty  and  riches  jostle  one  another  side  by 
side  as  they  do  in  life,  and  are  antagonistic  and  hate  one 
another.  Yet  Genoa,  alone  of  all  the  cities  of  Italy 
proper  is  living  to-day,  living  the  life  of  to-day,  and 
with  all  her  glorious  past  she  is  as  much  a  city  of  the 
twentieth  century  as  of  any  other  period  of  history.  For, 
while  others  have  gone  after  dreams  and  attained  them  and 
passed  away,  she  has  clung  to  life,  and  the  god  of  this  world 
was  ever  hers.  She  has  made  to  herself  friends  of  the 
mammon  of  unrighteousness,  and  they  have  remained  faithful 
to  her.  Her  ports  grow  and  multiply,  her  trade  increases,  still 
she  heaps  up  riches,  and  if  she  cannot  tell  who  shall  gather 
them,  at  least  she  is  true  to  herself  and  is  not  dependent  on 
the  stranger  or  the  tourist.  The  artist,  it  is  said,  is  something 
of  a  daughter  of  joy,  and  in  thinking  of  Florence  or  Venice, 
which  live  on  the  pleasure  of  the  stranger,  we  may  find  the 
truth  of  a  saying  so  obvious.  Well,  Genoa  was  never  an 
artist.  She  was  a  leader,  a  merchant,  with  fleets,  with  argosies, 
with  far-flung  companies  of  adventure.  Through  her  gates 
passed  the  silks  and  porcelains  of  the  East,  the  gold  of 
Africa,  the  slaves  and  fair  women,  the  booty  and  loot  of  life, 
the  trade  of  the  world.  This  is  her  secret.  She  is  living 
among  the  dead,  who  may  or  may  not  awaken. 


GENOA  7 

If  you  are  surprised  in  her  streets  by  the  greatness  of  old 
things,  it  is  only  to  find  yourself  face  to  face  with  the  new. 
People,  tourists  do  not  linger  in  her  ways — they  pass  on  to 
Pisa.  Genoa  has  too  little  to  show  them,  and  too  much.  She 
is  not  a  museum,  she  is  a  city,  a  city  of  life  and  death  and 
the  business  of  the  world.  You  will  never  love  her  as  you 
will  love  Pisa  or  Siena  or  Rome  or  Florence,  or  almost  any 
other  city  of  Italy.  We  do  not  love  the  living  as  we  love 
the  dead.  They  press  upon  us  and  contend  with  us,  and  are 
beautiful  and  again  ugly  and  mediocre  and  heroic,  all  between 
two  heart  beats ;  but  the  dead  ask  only  our  love.  Genoa 
has  never  asked  it,  and  never  will.  She  is  one  of  us,  her 
future  is  hidden  from  her,  and  into  her  mystery  none  has 
dared  to  look.  She  is  like  a  symphony  of  modern  music, 
full  of  immense  gradual  crescendos,  gradual  diminuendos, 
unknown  to  the  old  masters.  Only  Rome,  and  that  but 
seldom,  breathes  with  her  life.  But  through  the  music  of  her 
life,  so  modern,  so  full  of  a  sort  of  whining  and  despair  in 
which  no  great  resolution  or  heroic  notes  ever  come,  there 
winds  an  old-world  melody,  softly,  softly,  full  of  the  sun,  full 
of  the  sea,  that  is  always  the  same,  mysterious,  ambiguous, 
full  of  promises,  at  her  feet. 

Ill 

The  gate  of  Italy,  I  said  in  speaking  of  her,  and  indeed  it  is 
one  of  the  derivations  of  her  name  Genoa, — Janua  the  gate, 
founded,  as  the  fourteenth-century  inscription  in  the  Duomo 
asserts,  by  Janus,  a  Trojan  prince  skilled  in  astrology,  who, 
while  seeking  a  healthy  and  safe  place  for  his  dwelling,  sailed 
by  chance  into  this  bay,  where  was  a  little  city  founded  by 
Janus,  King  of  Italy,  a  great-grandson  of  Noah,  and  finding 
the  place  such  as  he  wished,  he  gave  it  his  name  and  his 
power.  Now,  whether  the  great-grandson  of  Noah  was  truly 
the  original  founder  of  the  city,  or  Janus  the  Trojan,  or  another, 
it  is  certainly  older  than  the  Christian  religion,  so  that  some 
have  thought  that  Janus,  that  old  god  who  once  presided  at 


8      FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  beginning  of  all  noble  things,  was  the  divine  originator  of 
this  city  also.  And  remembering  the  sun  that  continually 
makes  Genoa  to  seem  all  of  precious  stone,  of  moonstone  or 
alabaster,  it  seems  indeed  likely  enough,  for  Janus  was 
worshipped  of  old  as  the  sun,  he  opened  the  year  too,  and  the 
first  month  bears  his  name ;  and  while  on  earth  he  was  the 
guardian  deity  of  gates,  in  heaven  he  was  porter,  and  his  sign 
was  a  ship ;  therefore  he  may  well  have  taken  to  himself  the 
city  of  ships,  the  gateway  of  Italy,  Genoa. 

And  through  that  gate  what  beautiful,  terrible,  and 
mysterious  things  have  passed  into  oblivion ;  Saints  who 
have  perhaps  seen  the  very  face  of  Jesus ;  legions  strong  in 
the  everlasting  name  of  Caesar,  that  have  lost  themselves  in 
the  fastnesses  of  the  North ;  sailors  mad  with  the  song  of  the 
sirens.  On  her  quays  burned  the  futile  enthusiasm  of  the 
Middle  Age,  that  coveted  the  Holy  City  and  was  overwhelmed 
in  the  desert.  Through  her  streets  surged  Crusade  after 
Crusade,  companies  of  adventure,  lonely  hermits  drunken 
with  silence,  immense  armies  of  dreamers,  the  chivalry  of 
Europe,  a  host  of  little  children.  On  her  ramparts  Columbus 
dreamed,  and  in  her  seas  he  fought  with  the  Tunisian  galleys 
before  he  set  sail  westward  for  El  Dorado.  And  here 
Andrea  Doria  beat  the  Turks  and  blockaded  his  own  city  and 
set  her  free ;  and  S.  Catherine  Adorni,  weary  of  the  ways  of 
the  world,  watched  the  galleons  come  out  of  the  west,  and 
prayed  to  God,  and  saw  the  wind  over  the  sea.  O  beautiful 
and  mysterious  armies,  O  little  children  from  afar,  and  thou 
whose  adventurous  name  married  our  world,  what  cities  have 
you  taken,  what  new  love  have  you  found,  what  seas  have 
your  ships  furrowed ;  whither  have  you  fied  away  when  Genoa 
was  so  fair  ? 

It  was  about  the  year  50  when  St.  Nazarus  and  St.  Celsus, 
fleeing  from  the  terror  of  Nero,  landed  not  far  away  to  the 
east  at  Albaro,  bringing  with  them  the  new  religion.  A  lane 
leading  down  to  the  sea  still  bears  the  name  of  one  of  them, 
and,  strangely  as  we  may  think,  a  ruined  church  marks  the 


GENOA  9 

spot,  crowning  the  rock  above  the  place,  where  a  Temple  of 
Venus  once  stood.  Yet  perhaps  the  earliest  remnant  of  old 
Genoa  is  to  be  found  in  the  Church  of  St.  Sixtus  in  the  Via  di 
Prb,  standing  as  it  does  on  the  very  stones  of  a  church  raised 
to  the  Pope  and  martyr  of  that  name  in  260.  In  the  journey 
which  Pope  Sixtus  made  to  Genoa  he  is  said  to  have  been 
accompanied  by  St.  Laurence,  and  it  is  probable  that  a  church 
was  built  not  much  later  to  him  also  on  the  site  of  the 
Duomo.  However  this  may  be,  Genoa  appears  to  have  been 
passionately  Christian,  for  the  first  authority  we  hear  of  is 
that  of  the  Bishops,  to  whom  she  seems  to  have  submitted 
herself  enthusiastically,  installing  them  in  the  old  castello  in 
that  the  most  ancient  part  of  the  city  around  Piazza  Sarzano 
and  S,  Maria  di  Castello.  This  castello,  destroyed  in  the 
quarrels  of  Guelph  and  Ghibelline,  as  some  have  thought, 
may  be  found  in  the  hall-mark  of  the  silver  vessels  made 
here  under  the  Republic.  Very  few  are  the  remnants  that 
have  come  down  to  us  from  the  time  of  the  Bishops.  An 
inscription,  however,  on  a  house  in  Via  S.  Luca  close  to  S. 
Siro  remains,  telling  how  in  the  year  580  S.  Siro  destroyed 
the  serpent  Basilisk.  In  the  church  itself  a  seventeenth- 
century  fresco  commemorates  this  monstrous  deed. 

Of  the  Lombard  dominion  something  more  is  left  to  us ; 
the  story  at  least  of  the  passing  of  the  dust  of  St.  Augustine. 
It  seems  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  sixth  century  these 
sacred  ashes  had  been  brought  from  Africa  to  Cagliari  to 
save  them  from  the  Vandals.  For  more  than  two  hundred 
years  they  remained  at  Cagliari,  when,  the  Saracens  taking  the 
place,  Luitprand,  the  Lombard  king,  remembering  S.  Ambrogio 
and  Milan,  ransomed  them  for  a  great  price  and  had  them 
brought  in  725  to  Genoa,  where  they  were  shown  to  the 
people  for  many  days.  Luitprand  himself  came  to  Genoa 
to  meet  them  and  placed  them  in  a  silver  urn,  discovered  at 
Pavia  in  1695,  ^^^  carried  them  in  state  across  the  Apennines. 
Some  of  the  beautiful  Lombard  towers,  such  as  S.  Stefano 
and  S.  Agostino,  where  the  ashes  are  said  to  have  been 
exposed,   remind  us   perhaps   more  nearly  of  the  Lombard 


lo    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

dominion.  Then  came  Charlemagne  and  his  knights  and  the 
great  quarrel.  But  though  Genoa  now  belonged  to  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire,  she  was  not  strong  enough  to  defend  herself 
from  the  raids  of  the  Saracens,  who  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
tenth  century  burnt  the  city  and  led  half  the  population  into 
captivity. 

Perhaps  it  is  to  Otho  that  Genoa  owes  her  first  impulse 
towards  greatness  :  he  gave  her  a  sort  of  freedom  at  any  rate. 
And  immediately  after  his  day  the  Genoese  began  to  make 
way  against  the  Saracens  on  the  seas.  You  may  see  a  relic 
of  some  passing  victory  in  the  carved  Turk's  head  in  a  house 
at  the  comer  of  Via  di  Prb  and  Vico  dei  Mecellai.  Nor  was 
this  all,  for  about  this  time  Genoa  seized  Corsica,  that  fatal 
island  which  not  only  never  gave  her  peace,  but  bred  the 
immortal  soldier  who  was  finally  to  crush  her  and  to  end  her 
life  as  a  free  power. 

There  follow  the  Crusades.  These  splendid  follies  have 
much  to  do  with  the  wealth  and  greatness  of  Genoa.  It 
was  from  her  port  that  Godfrey  de  Bouillon  set  sail  in  the 
Pomella  as  a  pilgrim  in  1095.  He  appears  to  have  been 
insulted  at  the  very  gate  of  Jerusalem,  or,  as  some  say,  at 
the  door  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  At  any  rate  he  returned  to 
Europe,  where  Urban  11,  urged  by  Peter  the  Hermit,  was 
already  half  inclined  to  proclaim  the  First  Crusade,  Godfrey's 
story  seems  to  have  decided  him ;  and,  indeed,  so  moving 
was  his  tale,  that  the  crowd  who  heard  him  cried  out  urging 
the  Pope  to  act,  Dieu  le  veult,  the  famous  and  fatal  cry  that 
was  to  lead  uncounted  thousands  to  death,  and  almost  to 
widow  Europe.  In  Genoa  the  war  was  preached  furiously 
and  with  success  by  the  Bishops  of  Gratz  and  Aries  in  S. 
Siro.  An  army  of  enthusiasts,  monks,  beggars,  soldiers, 
adventurers,  and  thieves,  moved  partly  by  the  love  of  Christ, 
partly  by  love  of  gain,  gathered  in  Genoa.  With  them  was 
Godfrey.  They  sailed  in  1097  :  they  besieged  Antioch  and 
took  it.  Content  it  might  seem  with  this  success,  or  fearful 
in  that  stony  place  of  venturing  too  far  from  the  sea,  the 
Genoese  returned,  not  empty.     For  on  the  way  back,  storm- 


GENOA  II 

bound  perhaps  in  Myra,  they  sacked  a  Greek  monastery 
there,  carrying  off  for  their  city  the  dust  of  St.  John  Baptist, 
which  to-day  is  still  in  their  keeping. 

Was  it  this  same  loot  that  caused  Genoa  in  1099  to  send 
even  a  larger  company  to  Judaea  under  the  great  Guglielmo 
Embriaco,  whose  tower  to-day  is  all  that  is  left  of  what  must 
once  have  been  a  city  of  towers  ?  Who  knows  ?  He  landed 
with  his  Genoese  at  Joppa,  burnt  his  ships  as  Caesar  did, 
though  doubtless  he  thought  not  of  it,  and  marching  on 
Jerusalem  found  the  Christians  still  unsuccessful  and  the 
Tomb  of  Christ,  as  now,  ringed  by  pagan  spears.  But  the 
Genoese  were  not  to  be  denied.  If  the  valour  of  Europe 
was  of  no  avail,  the  contrivance  of  the  sea,  the  cunning  of 
Genoa  must  bring  down  Saladin.  So  they  set  to  work  and 
made  a  tower  of  scaffolding  with  ropes,  with  timbers,  with 
spars  saved  from  their  ships.  When  this  was  ready,  slowly, 
not  without  difficulty,  surely  not  without  joy,  they  hauled 
and  heaved  and  drove  it  over  the  burning  dust,  the  immense 
wilderness  of  stones  and  refuse  that  surrounded  Jerusalem. 
Then  they  swarmed  up  with  songs,  with  shouting,  and  leapt 
on  to  the  walls,  and  over  the  ramparts  into  the  Holy  City, 
covered  with  blood,  filled  with  the  fury  of  battle,  wounded, 
dying,  mad  with  hatred  to  the  Tomb  of  Jesus,  the  empty 
sepulchre  of  God. 

Then  eight  days  after  came  that  strange  election,  when  we 
offered  the  throne  of  Palestine  to  Godfrey  of  Bouillon ;  but 
he  refused  to  wear  a  crown  of  gold  where  his  Saviour  had 
worn  one  of  thorns,  so  we  proclaimed  him  Defender  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre. 

But  the  Genoese  under  Embriaco  as  before  returned  home, 
again  not  without  spoil.  And  their  captain  for  his  portion 
claimed  the  Catino,  the  famous  vessel,  fashioned  as  was 
thought  of  a  single  emerald,  truly,  as  was  believed,  the  vessel 
of  the  Holy  Grail,  the  cup  of  the  Last  Supper,  the  basin  of 
the  Precious  Blood.  To-day,  if  you  are  fortunate,  as  you 
look  at  it  in  the  Treasury  of  S.  Lorenzo,  they  tell  you  it  is 
only  green  glass,  and  was  broken  by  the  French  who  carried 


12    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

it  to  Paris.  But,  indeed,  what  crime  would  be  too  great  in 
order  to  possess  oneself  of  such  a  thing  ?  It  was  an  emerald 
once,  and  into  it  the  Prince  of  Life  had  dipped  His  fingers ; 
Nicodemus  had  held  it  in  his  trembling  hands  to  catch  the 
very  life  of  God ;  who  knows  what  saint  or  angry  angel  in  the 
heathen  days  of  Napoleon,  foreseeing  the  future,  snatched  it 
away  into  heaven,  giving  us  in  exchange  what  we  deserved. 
Surely  it  was  an  emerald  once?  Is  it  possible  that  a 
Genoese  gave  up  all  his  spoil  for  a  green  glass,  a  cracked 
pipkin,  a  heathen  wash-pot,  empty,  valueless,  a  fraud? — I'll 
not  believe  it 

Embriaco,  however,  returned  once  more  to  Palestine  with 
his  Genoese,  fighting  under  Godfrey  at  Cesarea;  and  again 
he  came  home  in  triumph,  his  galleys  low  with  spoil.  And 
indeed,  though  we  hear  no  more  of  Embriaco,  by  the  end  of 
the  first  Crusade,  Genoa  had  won  possessions  in  the  East, 
— streets  in  Jaffa,  streets  in  Jerusalem,  whole  quarters  in 
Antioch,  Cesarea,  Tyre,  and  Acre,  not  to  speak  of  an  in- 
scription in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  "  Prepotens 
Genuensium  Presidium,"  which  Godfrey  had  carved  there, 
while  the  Pope  gave  them  their  cross  of  St  George  as  arms, 
which,  as  some  say,  we  got  from  them. 

Strangely  as  we  may  think,  in  the  second  Crusade,  and  even 
in  the  third,  so  disastrous  for  the  Christian  arms,  Genoa  bore 
no  part ;  no  part,  that  is,  in  the  fighting,  though  in  the  matter 
of  commissariat  and  shipping  she  was  not  slow  to  come 
forward  and  make  a  fortune.  And  indeed,  she  had  enough  to 
do  at  home  ;  for  Pisa,  no  less  slow  to  join  the  Crusades, 
became  her  enemy,  jealous  of  her  growing  power  and  of  her 
possession  of  Corsica,  so  that  in  1120  war  broke  out  between 
them,  which  scarcely  ceased  till  Pisa  was  finally  beaten  on  the 
sea,  and  the  chains  of  Porto  Pisano  hanging  in  the  Palazzo  di 
S.  Giorgio. 

Soon,  however,  Genoa  was  engaged  in  a  more  profitable 
business,  an  affair  after  her  own  heart,  in  which  valour  was 
not  its  own  reward, — I  mean,  in  the  expedition  in  1 147  against 
the  Moors  in  Spain.     Certainly  the  Pope,  Eugenius  in  it  was, 


GENOA  13 

urged  them  to  it,  but  so  they  had  been  urged  to  fight  against 
Saladin  without  arousing  enthusiasm.  But  in  this  new  cause 
all  Genoa  was  at  fever  heat.  Wherefore  ?  Well,  Granada  was 
a  great  and  wealthy  city,  whereas  Jerusalem  was  a  ruined 
village.  So  they  sent  thirty  thousand  men  with  sixty  galleys 
and  one  hundred  and  sixty  transports  to  Almeria,  which  after 
some  hard  fighting,  for  your  Moor  was  never  a  coward,  they 
took,  with  a  huge  booty.  In  the  next  year  they  took  Tortosa, 
and  returned  home  laden  with  spoil,  silver  lamps  for  the 
shrine  of  St.  John  Baptist,  for  instance,  and  women  and  slaves. 
Still,  Genoa  had  not  peace,  for  we  find  her  making  a  stout 
and  successful  defence  shortly  after  against  Frederic  i,  the 
whole  city,  men,  women,  and  children,  on  his  approach  from 
Lombardy,  building  a  great  wall  about  the  city  in  fifty-three 
days,  of  which  feat  Porta  S.  Andrea  remains  the  monument. 
Then  followed  that  pestilence  of  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  ;  out 
of  which  rose  the  names  of  the  great  families,  robbers, 
oppressors,  tyrants, — Awocato,  Spinola,  Doria,  the  Ghibellines, 
with  the  Guelphs,  Castelli,  Fieschi,  Grimaldi.  Nor  was  Genoa 
free  of  them  till  the  great  Admiral  Andrea  Doria  crushed 
them  for  ever.  Yet  peace  of  a  sort  there  was,  now  and  again, 
in  1 189  for  instance,  when  Saladin  won  back  Jerusalem,  and 
the  Guelph  nobles  volunteered  in  a  body  to  serve  against  him, 
leaving  Genoa  to  the  Ghibellines,  who  established  the  foreign 
Podestk  for  the  first  time  to  rule  the  city.  But  this  gave 
them  no  peace,  for  still  the  nobles  fought  together,  and  if  one 
family  became  too  powerful,  confusion  became  worse  con- 
founded, for  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  joined  together  to 
bring  it  low.  Thus  in  the  thirteenth  century  you  find 
Ghibelline  Doria  linked  with  the  Guelph  Grimaldi  and 
Fieschi  to  break  Ghibelline  Spinola.  The  aspect  of  the  city 
at  that  time  was  certainly  very  different  from  the  city  of  to-day, 
which  is  mainly  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries 
where  it  is  not  quite  modern.  Then  each  family  had  its 
tower,  from  which  it  fought  or  out  of  which  it  issued,  making 
the  streets  a  shambles  as  it  followed  the  enemy  home  or 
sought  him  out.     The   ordinary  citizen   must   have   had  an 


14    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

anxious  time  of  it  with  these  bands  of  idle  cut-throats  at 
large.  But  by  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century  the  towers,  at 
any  rate,  had  been  destroyed  by  order  of  the  Consuls,  the 
only  one  left  being  that  which  we  see  to-day,  Torre  degli 
Embriachi,  left  as  a  monument  to  a  cunning  valour.  The 
thirteenth  century  saw  the  domination  of  the  Spinola  family, 
or  rather  of  one  branch  of  it,  the  Luccoli  Spinolas,  which  as 
opposed  to  the  old  S.  Luca  branch  seems  to  have  lived  nearer 
the  country  and  the  woods,  and  was  apparently  most  disastrous 
for  the  internal  peace  of  the  city ;  and  indeed,  until  the  Luccoli 
were  beaten  and  exiled,  as  happened  in  the  beginning  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  there  could  be  no  peace ;  truly  the  only 
peace  Genoa  knew  in  those  days  was  that  of  a  foreign  war, 
when  the  great  lords  went  out  against  Pisa  or  Venice. 

The  Venetian  war,  unlike  that  against  Pisa,  ended 
disastrously.  Its  origin  was  a  question  of  trade  in  the 
East,  where  the  Comneni  had  given  certain  rights  to  Genoa 
which  on  their  fall  the  Venetians  refused  to  respect.  The 
quarrel  came  to  a  head  in  that  cause  of  so  many  quarrels,  the 
island  of  Crete,  for  the  Marquis  of  Monferrat  had  sold  it  to 
the  Venetians  while  he  offered  it  to  the  Genoese,  he  himself 
having  received  it  as  spoil  in  the  fourth  Crusade.  In  this 
quarrel  with  Venice,  Genoa  certainly  at  first  had  the  best  of 
it.  In  1 261,  or  thereabout,  she  founded  two  colonies  at 
Pera  and  Caffa,  on  the  Bosphorus  and  in  the  Euxine,  thus 
adding  to  her  empire,  which  was  rather  a  matter  of  business 
than  of  dominion.  This  is  illustrated  very  effectually  by  the 
history  of  the  Bank  of  St.  George,  which  from  this  time  till 
its  dissolution  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  was,  as  it 
were,  the  heart  of  Genoa.  It  was  Guglielmo  Boccanegra,  the 
grandfather  of  a  more  famous  son,  who  built  the  palace  which, 
as  we  now  see  it  on  the  quay,  is  so  sad  and  ruinous  a  monu- 
ment to  the  independent  greatness  of  the  city.  And  since  its 
stones  were,  as  it  is  said,  brought  from  Constantinople,  where 
Michael  Paleologus  had  given  the  Genoese  the  Venetian 
fortress  of  Pancratone,  it  is  really  a  monument  of  the  hatred 
of  Genoa  for  Venice  that  we   see   there,  the  principal  door 


GENOA  15 

being  adorned  with  three  lions'  heads,  part  of  the  spoil  of 
that  Venetian  fortress.  This  palace,  on  the  death  of 
Boccanegra,  Captain  of  the  People,  was  used  by  the  city 
as  an  office  for  the  registration  of  the  compere  or  public  loans, 
which  dated  from  1147  and  the  Moorish  expedition.  From 
the  time  of  the  foundation  of  the  Bank  the  shares  were,  like 
our  consols,  to  be  bought  and  sold  and  were  guaranteed  by 
the  city  herself,  though  it  was  not  till  1407  that  the  loans  were 
consolidated  and  the  Palazzo  delle  Compere,  as  it  was  called, 
became  the  Banco  di  S.  Giorgio.  Indeed,  though  its  real 
power  may  be  doubted,  it  administered,  in  name  at  any  rate, 
the  colonies  of  Genoa  after  the  fall  of  Constantinople. 

Of  the  building  itself  I  speak  elsewhere ;  it  is  rather  to  its  place 
in  the  story  of  Genoa  that  I  have  wished  here  to  draw  attention. 

And  it  was  now,  indeed,  that  Genoa  reached,  perhaps,  the 
zenith  of  her  power.  For  in  1284  comes  the  great  victory  of 
Meloria,  which  laid  Pisa  low.  Enraged  partly  at  the  success 
of  Genoa  in  the  East,  partly  at  her  growing  power  and 
general  wealth,  Pisa,  with  that  extraordinary  flaming  and 
ruthless  energy  so  characteristic  of  her,  determined  to 
dispose  of  Genoa  once  and  for  all.  Nor  were  the  Genoese 
unwilling  to  meet  her.  Indeed,  they  urged  her  to  it. 
The  two  fleets,  bearing  some  sixty  thousand  men,  that  of  Pisa 
commanded  by  a  Venetian,  Andrea  Morosini,  that  of  Genoa 
by  Oberto  Doria,  met  at  Meloria,  not  far  from  Bocca  dArno, 
where  the  Pisans  were  utterly  defeated,  partly  owing  to  the 
treachery  of  the  immortal  Count  Ugolino,  who  sailed  away 
without  striking  a  blow.  ^  Yet  in  spite  of  her  defeat  Pisa 
carried  on  the  war  for  four  years,  when  she  sued  for  peace, 
which,  however,  she  could  not  keep,  so  that  in  1290  we  find 
Corrado  Doria  sailing  into  the  Porto  Pisano,  breaking  the 
chain  which  guarded  it,  and  carrying  it  back  to  Genoa,  where 
part  of  it  hung  as  a  trophy  till  our  own  time  in  the  facade  of 
the  Palazzo  di  S.  Giorgio. 

Nor  were  the  Genoese  content,  for  soon  after  this  victory 

*  Cf.  P.  Villari :  Primi  due  Secoli  della  Storui  di  Firenze  (2°  Edizione), 
vol.  I.  p.  246. 


I6    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

we  find  them,  led  by  Lamba  Doria,  utterly  beating  the 
Venetians  at  Curzola,  in  the  Adriatic,  where  they  took  a 
famous  prisoner,  Messer  Marco  Polo,  just  returned  from  Asia. 
They  brought  him  back  to  Genoa,  where  he  remained  in 
prison  for  nearly  two  years,  and  wrote  his  masterpiece. 
Whether  it  was  the  influence  of  so  illustrious  a  captive,  or 
merely  the  natural  expression  of  their  own  splendid  and 
adventurous  spirit,  about  this  time  the  Doria  fitted  out  two 
galleys  to  explore  the  western  seas,  and  to  try  to  reach  India 
by  way  of  the  sunset.  Tedisio  Doria  and  the  brothers 
Vivaldi  with  some  Franciscans  set  out  on  this  adventure,  and 
never  returned. 

With  the  fourteenth  century  Genoa  for  a  time  threw  off 
the  yoke  of  her  great  nobles,  Spinola,  Doria,  Grimaldi, 
Fieschi.  The  wave  of  revolt  that  passed  over  Europe  at  this 
time  certainly  left  Genoa  freer  than  she  had  ever  been.  The 
people  had  claimed  to  name  their  own  "  Abbate,"  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  Captain  of  the  People.  They  chose  by 
acclamation  Simone  Boccanegra,  who,  however,  seeing  that  he 
was  to  have  no  power,  refused  the  office.  "  If  he  will  not  be 
Abbate,"  cried  a  voice  in  the  crowd,  "  let  him  be  Doge  "  ;  and 
seeing  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people,  this  great  man  allowed 
himself  to  be  borne  to  S.  Siro,  where  he  was  crowned  first 
Doge  of  Genoa  for  life.  The  nobles  seem  to  have  been 
afraid  to  interfere,  so  great  was  the  eagerness  of  the  people. 
And  it  was  about  this  time  that  the  Grimaldi,  driven  out  of 
Genoa,  seized  Monaco,  which  by  the  sufferance  of  Europe 
they  hold  to-day.  It  is  true,  that  for  a  time  in  1344  the 
nobles  gathered  an  army  and  returned  to  Genoa,  Boccanegra 
resigning  and  exiling  himself  in  Pisa ;  but  twelve  years  later 
he  was  back  again,  ruling  with  temperance  and  wisdom  that 
great  city,  which  was  now  queen  of  the  Mediterranean  sea. 

To  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  Republic  one  would  need  to 
write  a  book.  It  must  be  sufficient  to  say  here  that  by  the 
middle  of  the  century  war  broke  out  with  Venice,  and  was  at 
first  disastrous  for  Genoa.  Then  once  more  a  Doria,  Pagano 
it  was,  led  her  to  victory  at  Sapienza,  off  the  coast  of  Greece, 


GENOA  17 

where  thirty-one  Genoese  galleys  fought  thirty-six  of  Venice 
and  took  them  captive.  But  the  nobles  were  never  quiet, 
always  they  plotted  the  death  of  the  Doge  Giovanni  da 
Morta,  or  Boccanegra.  It  was  with  the  latter  they  were 
successful  in  1363,  when  they  poisoned  him  at  a  banquet  in 
honour  of  the  King  of  Cyprus — for  they  had  possessed 
themselves  of  a  city  in  that  island.  Thus  the  nobles  came 
back  into  Genoa,  Adorni,  Fregosi,  Guarchi,  Montaldi,  this  time  ; 
lesser  men,  but  not  less  disastrous  for  the  liberty  of  Genoa 
than  the  older  families.  So  they  fought  among  themselves 
for  mastery,  till  the  Adorni,  fearing  to  be  beaten,  sold  the  city 
to  Charles  vi  of  France,  who  made  them  his  representative 
and  gave  them  the  government.  And  all  this  time  the  war 
with  Venice  continued.  At  first  it  promised  success, — at  Pola, 
for  instance,  where  Luciano  Doria  was  victorious,  but  at  last 
beaten  at  Chioggia,  and  not  knowing  where  to  turn  to  make 
terms,  the  supremacy  of  the  seas  passed  from  Genoa  to 
Venice,  peace  coming  at  last  in  1381. 

Then  the  Genoese  turned  their  attention  to  the  affairs  of 
their  city.  In  the  first  year  of  the  fifteenth  century  they  rose 
to  throw  off  the  French  yoke.  But  France  was  not  so  easily 
disposed  of.  She  sent  Marshal  Boucicault  to  rule  in  Genoa ; 
and  he  built  the  Castelletto,  which  was  destroyed  only  a  few 
years  ago  in  our  father's  time.  In  1409,  however,  Boucicault 
thought  to  gain  Milan,  for  Gian  Visconti  Galeazzo  was  dead. 
In  his  absence  the  Genoese  rose  and  threw  out  the  French, 
preferring  their  own  tyrants.  These,  Adorni,  Montaldi, 
Fregosi,  fought  together  till  Tommaso  Fregosi,  fearing  that 
the  others  might  prove  too  strong  for  him,  sold  the  city  to 
Filippo  Maria  Visconti,  tyrant  of  Milan.  So  the  Visconti 
came  to  rule  in  Genoa. 

This  period,  full  of  the  confusion  of  the  petty  wars  of 
Italy,  while  Sforza  was  plotting  for  his  dukedom  and 
Malatesta  was  building  his  Rocca  in  Rimini ;  while  the  Pope 
was  a  fugitive,  and  the  kingdom  of  Naples  in  a  state  of 
anarchy,  is  famous,  so  far  as  Genoa  is  concerned,  for  her 
victory  at  sea  over  King  Alfonso  of  Aragon,  pretender  against 


1 8    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Rend  of  Anjou  to  the  throne  of  Naples.  The  Visconti 
sided  with  the  House  of  Anjou,  and  Genoa,  in  their  power  for 
the  moment,  fought  with  them ;  so  that  Biagio  Assereto,  in 
command  of  the  Genoese  fleet,  not  only  defeated  the 
Aragonese,  but  took  Alfonso  prisoner,  together  with  the  King 
of  Navarre  and  many  nobles.  That  victory,  strangely  enough, 
made  an  end  of  the  rule  of  the  Visconti  in  Genoa.  For, 
seeing  his  policy  led  that  way,  Filippo  Maria  Visconti 
ordered  the  Genoese  to  send  their  illustrious  prisoners  to 
Milan,  where  he  made  much  of  them,  fearing  now  rather 
the  French  than  the  Spaniards,  since  the  Genoese  had  dis- 
posed of  the  latter  and  made  the  French  all-powerful.  This 
spoliation  of  the  victors,  however,  enraged  the  Genoese,  who 
joined  the  league  of  Florence  and  Venice,  deserting  Milan.  At 
the  word  of  Francesco  Spinola  they  rose,  in  1436,  killed  the 
Milanese  governor  outside  the  Church  of  S.  Siro,  and  once 
more  declared  a  Republic.  To  little  purpose,  as  it  proved, 
for  the  feuds  betwixt  the  great  families  continued,  so  that  by 
1458  we  find  Pietro  Fregosi,  fearing  the  growing  power  of 
the  Adorni,  and  hard  pressed  by  King  Alfonso,  who  never 
forgave  an  injury,  handing  over  Genoa  to  Charles  vii  of  France 
Meantime,  in  1453,  Constantinople  had  fallen  before 
Mahomet,  and  the  colony  of  Galata  was  thus  lost  to 
Genoa.  And  though  in  this  sorry  business  the  Genoese 
seem  to  be  less  blameworthy  than  the  rest  of  Christendom 
— for  they  with  but  four  galleys  defeated  the  whole  Turkish 
fleet — Genoa  suffered  in  the  loss  of  Galata  more  than  the  rest, 
a  fact  certainly  not  lost  upon  Venice  and  Naples,  who  refused 
to  move  against  the  Turk,  though  the  honour  of  Europe  was 
pledged  in  that  cause.  But  all  Italy  was  in  a  state  of  con- 
fusion. Sforza,  that  fox  who  had  possessed  himself  of  the 
March  of  Ancona,  and  had  never  fought  in  any  cause  but  his 
own,  on  the  death  of  Visconti  had  with  almost  incredible 
guile  seized  Milan.  He  it  was  who  helped  the  Genoese  to 
throw  out  the  French,  only  to  take  Genoa  for  himself.  A 
man  of  splendid  force  and  confidence,  he  ruled  wisely,  and 
alone  of  her  rulers  up   to   this  time  seems  to  have  been 


GENOA  19 

regretted  when,  in  1466,  he  died,  and  was  succeeded  in  the 
Duchy  of  Milan  by  his  son  Galeazzo.  This  man  was  a  tyrant, 
and  ruled  like  a  barbarian,  till  his  assassination  in  1476. 
There  followed  a  brief  space  of  liberty  in  Genoa,  liberty 
endangered  every  moment  by  the  quarrels  of  the  nobles,  who 
at  last  proposed  to  divide  the  city  among  them,  and  would 
have  thus  destroyed  their  fatherland,  had  not  II  Moro, 
Ludovico  Sforza  of  Milan,  intervened  and  possessed  himself 
of  Genoa,  which  he  held  till  1499,  when  Louis  xii  of  France 
defeated  him,  Genoa  placing  herself  under  his  protection. 

Meanwhile  Columbus,  that  mystical  dreamer  who  might 
have  restored  to  Genoa  all  and  more  than  all  she  had  lost  in 
colonial  dominion,  was  bom  and  grew  up  in  those  narrow 
streets,  and  played  on  the  lofty  ramparts  and  learned  the  ways 
of  ships.  Genoa  in  her  proud  confusion  heard  him  not,  so 
he  passed  to  Salamanca  and  the  Dominicans,  and  set  sail 
from  Cadiz.  Yet  he  never  forgot  Genoa,  and  indeed  it  is 
characteristic  of  those  great  men  who  are  without  honour  in 
their  own  country,  that  they  are  ever  mindful  of  her  who  has 
rejected  them.  The  beautiful  letter  written  to  the  Bank  of 
St.  George  in  1498  from  Seville,  as  he  was  about  to  set  out 
on  what  proved  to  be  his  last  voyage,  is  witness  to  this. 

'*  Although  my  body,"  he  writes,  "  is  here,  my  heart  is 
always  with  you.  God  has  been  more  bountiful  to  me  than 
to  any  one  since  David's  time.  The  success  of  my  enterprise 
is  already  clear,  and  would  be  still  more  clear  if  the  Govern- 
ment did  not  cover  it  with  a  veil.  I  sail  again  for  the  Indies 
in  the  name  of  the  Most  Holy  Trinity,  and  I  return  at  once ; 
but  as  I  know  I  am  but  mortal,  I  charge  my  son  Don  Diego 
to  pay  you  yearly  and  for  ever  the  tenth  part  of  all  my 
revenue,  in  order  to  lighten  the  toll  on  wine  and  corn.  If  this 
tenth  part  is  large  you  are  welcome  to  it ;  if  small,  believe 
in  my  good  wish.  May  the  Most  Holy  Trinity  guard  your 
noble  persons  and  increase  the  lustre  of  your  distinguished 
office." 

Such  were  the  last  words  of  Columbus  to  his  native  city. 
You  may  see  his  birthplace,  the  very  house  in  which  he  was 


20    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

bom,  on  your  left  in  the  Borgo  dei  Lanajoli,  as  you  go  down 
from  the  Porta  S.  Andrea. 

It  was  in  1499  ^^^^  Louis  of  France  got  possession 
of  Genoa.  He  held  the  city,  cowed  as  it  was,  till  1507, 
when,  goaded  into  rebellion  by  insufferable  wrongs,  the 
people  rose  and  threw  out  his  Frenchmen  with  their  own 
nobles,  choosing  as  their  Doge  Paolo  da  Novi,  a  dyer  of 
silk,  one  of  themselves.  Not  for  long,  however,  was  Paolo  to 
rule  in  Genoa,  for  Louis  retook  the  city,  and  Paolo,  who  had 
fled  to  Pisa,  was  captured  as  he  sailed  for  Rome,  and  put  to 
death. 

It  was  now  that  it  came  into  the  mind  of  Louis,  who  had 
learned  nothing  from  experience,  to  build  another  fort  like 
to  the  Castelletto,  to  wit  the  Briglia,  to  bridle  the  city. 
This  he  did,  yet  there  lay  the  bridle  on  which  he  was  to  be 
ridden  back  to  France.  For  the  Genoese  never  forgave  him 
his  threat,  which  stood  before  them  day  by  day,  so  that  at 
the  first  opportunity,  Julius  11,  Pope  and  warrior,  helping  them, 
they  rose  again,  and  again  the  French  departed.  And  in 
15 15  Louis  died,  and  Francis  i  ruled  in  his  stead.  Then 
the  nobles  of  Genoa,  quarrelling  as  ever  among  themselves, 
Fregoso  agreed  with  the  French  king,  who  made  him  governor 
of  the  city.  The  Adomi,  angry  at  this,  made  overtures  to  the 
Emperor,  Charles  v  it  was,  who  sent  General  Pescara  and 
twenty  thousand  men  to  take  the  city.  There  followed  that 
most  bloody  sack,  to  the  cry  of  Spain  and  Adomi,  which  lives 
in  history  and  in  the  hearts  of  the  Genoese  to  this  day. 
This  happened  in  1522,  and  thereafter  Antoniotto  Adomi 
became  Doge  as  a  reward  for  his  treachery. 

But  already  the  deliverer  was  at  hand,  scarcely  to  be  dis- 
tinguished at  first  from  an  enemy.  Five  years  were  the 
length  of  Adomi's  rule,  and  all  that  time  the  French  attacked 
and  strove  for  the  city,  and  in  their  ranks  fought  he  who  was 
the  deliverer,  Andrea  Doria,  Lord  Admiral  of  Genoa,  the 
saviour  of  his  country. 

Then  in  1527  the  French  got  possession  of  Genoa.  Now 
Filippino  Doria,  nephew  to  the  Admiral,  had  won  a  victory  in 


GENOA  21 

the  Gulf  of  Palermo  over  the  Spanish  fleet.  But  Francis, 
that  brilliant  fool,  thought  nothing  of  this  service,  though  he 
claimed  the  prisoners  for  himself,  for  he  liked  the  ransom 
well.  Then  the  Admiral,  touched  in  his  pride,  threw  over  the 
French  cause  and  joined  the  Emperor.  In  1528  a  common 
action  between  the  fleet  under  Doria  and  the  populace  within 
the  city  once  more  threw  out  the  French,  and  Doria  entered 
Genoa  amid  the  acclamation  of  the  multitude,  knight  of  the 
Golden  Fleece  and  Prince  of  Melfi. 

This  extraordinary  and  heroic  sailor,  bom  at  Oneglia  in 
1466  or  1468  of  one  of  the  princely  houses  of  Genoa,  before 
1503  had  served  under  many  Italian  lords.  It  was  in  1 5 1 3  that 
he  first  had  the  command  of  the  fleet  of  Genoa,  while  three 
years  later  he  defeated  the  Turks  at  Pianosa.  He  helped 
Francis  into  Genoa  and  he  threw  him  out ;  while  he  lived  he 
ruled  the  city  he  had  twice  subdued,  and  his  glory  was  hers. 
Yet  truly  it  might  seem  that  all  Doria  did  was  but  to  transfer 
Genoa  from  the  Spaniard  to  the  Frenchman  and  back  again. 
In  reality,  he  won  her  for  himself.  He  drove  the  French  not 
only  out  of  Genoa,  but  out  of  her  dominion.  He  filled  up 
the  port  of  Savona  with  stones,  because  she  had  under 
French  influence  sought  to  rival  Genoa.  With  him  Genoa 
ruled  the  sea,  and  with  his  death  her  greatness  departed. 
And  he  was  as  liberal  as  he  was  powerful.  Charles  v  knew 
him,  and  let  him  alone.  He  himself  as  Lord  of  Genoa  gave 
her  back  her  liberties,  set  up  the  Senate  again,  opened 
the  Golden  Book,  II  Libro  d'Oro,  and  wrote  in  it  the  names 
of  those  who  should  rule ;  then  he  set  up  a  parliament,  the 
Grand  Council  of  Four  Hundred,  and  the  old  quarrels  were 
forgotten,  and  there  was  peace. 

But  who  could  rule  the  Genoese,  greedy  as  their  sea, 
treacherous  as  their  winds,  proud  as  their  sun,  deep  as  their 
sky,  cruel  as  their  rocks !  If  the  Admiral  had  brought  the 
Adomi  and  the  Fregosi  low,  there  yet  remained  the  Fieschi, 
old  as  the  Doria,  Guelph  too,  while  they  had  been  Ghibelline. 

It  is  true  that  the  old  quarrels  were  done  with,  yet 
strangely  enough  it  was  on  the  Pope's  behalf  that  the  Fieschi 


22     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

plotted  against  the  Doria.  Now,  Pope  Paul  in  had  been 
Dona's  friend.  In  1535  he  had  for  a  remembrance  of  his 
love  given  the  Admiral  that  great  sword  which  still  hangs  in 
S.  Matteo.  But  now,  when  Andrea's  brother,  Abbate  di  San 
Fruttuoso  came  to  die,  and  it  was  known  that  he  had  left 
the  Admiral  much  property  close  to  Naples,  the  Pope, 
swearing  that  the  estates  of  an  ecclesiastic  necessarily 
returned  to  the  Church,  claimed  Andrea's  inheritance.  But 
the  Admiral  thought  differently.  Ordering  Giannettino,  his 
nephew,  to  take  the  fleet  to  Civitavecchia,  he  seized  the 
Pope's  galleys  and  had  them  brought  to  Genoa.  Now, 
when  the  Genoese  saw  this  strange  capture  convoyed  into 
Genoa — so  the  tale  goes — they  were  afraid,  and  crowded 
round  the  old  Admiral,  demanding  wherefore  he  made  war 
on  the  Church,  and  some  shouted  sacrilege  and  others  pro- 
fanation, while  others  again  besought  him  with  tears  what  it 
meant.  And  he  answered,  so  that  all  might  hear,  that  it 
meant  that  his  galleys  were  stronger  than  those  of  His 
Holiness. 

Then  the  Pope,  knowing  his  man,  gave  way,  but  forgot  it 
not  So  that  he  called  Gian  Luigi  Fieschi  to  him,  the  head 
of  that  family,  a  Guelph  of  a  Guelph  stock,  and  put  it  into  his 
mind  to  rise  against  the  Admiral,  and  to  hold  Genoa  himself 
under  the  protection  of  Francis  1.  The  blow  fell  on  ist 
January  1547.  Now,  on  the  day  before  the  Admiral  was 
unwell  and  lay  a-bed,  so  that  Fieschi  waited  on  him  in  the 
most  friendly  way,  and,  as  it  is  said,  kissed  many  times  the  two 
lads,  grand-nephews  of  the  Admiral,  who  played  about  the 
room.  Not  many  hours  later,  the  Fieschi  were  in  the  streets 
rousing  the  city.  Giannettino,  nephew  to  the  Admiral, 
hearing  the  tumult,  ran  to  the  Porta  S.  Tommaso  to  hold  it 
and  enter  the  city,  but  that  gate  was  already  lost,  and  he 
himself  soon  dead.  Truly,  all  seemed  lost  when  Fieschi, 
going  to  seize  the  galleys,  slipped  from  a  plank  into  the 
water,  and  his  armour  drowned  him.  Then  the  House  of 
Doria  rallied,  and  their  cry  rang  through  the  city ;  little  by 
little  they  thrust  back  their  enemies,  they  hemmed  them  in, 


GENOA  23 

they  trod  them  under  foot;  before  dawn  all  that  were  left 
of  the  Fieschi  were  flying  to  Montobbio,  their  castle  in  the 
mountains.  Thus  the  Admiral  gave  peace  to  Genoa,  nor 
was  he  content  with  the  exile  or  death  of  his  foes,  for  he 
destroyed  also  all  their  palaces,  villas,  and  castles,  spoiling 
thus  half  the  city,  and  making  way  for  the  palaces  which 
have  named  Genoa  the  City  of  Palaces,  and  which  we  know 
to-day.  For  thirteen  years  longer  Andrea  Doria  reigned  in 
Genoa,  dying  at  last  in  1560.  And  at  his  death  all  that 
might  make  Genoa  so  proud  departed  with  him.  In  1565 
she  lost  Chios,  the  last  of  her  possessions  in  the  East,  and 
before  long  she  lay  once  more  in  the  hands  of  foreigners, 
not  to  regain  her  liberty  till  in  i860  Italy  rose  up  out  of 
chaos  and  her  sea  bore  the  Thousand  of  Garibaldi  to  Sicily, 
to  Marsala,  to  free  the  Kingdom. 

IV 

As  you  stand  under  those  strange  arcades  that  run  under  the 
houses  facing  the  port,  all  that  most  ancient  story  of  Genoa 
seems  actual,  possible ;  it  is  as  though  in  some  extraordinarily 
vivid  dream  you  had  gone  back  to  less  uniform  days,  when  the 
beauty  and  the  ugliness  of  the  world  struggled  for  mastery, 
before  the  overwhelming  victory  of  the  machine  had  enthroned 
ugliness  or  threatened  the  dominion  of  the  soul  of  man.  In 
that  shadowy  place,  where  little  shops  like  caverns  open  on 
either  side,  with  here  a  woman  grinding  coffee,  there  a  shoe- 
maker at  his  last,  yonder  a  smith  making  copper  pipkins,  a 
sailor  buying  ropes,  an  old  woman  cheapening  apples,  every- 
thing seems  to  have  stood  still  from  century  to  century. 
There  you  will  surely  see  the  mantilla  worn  as  in  Spain, 
while  the  smell  of  ships,  whose  masts  every  now  and  then 
you  may  see,  a  whole  forest  of  them,  in  the  harbour,  the 
bells  of  the  mules,  the  splendour  of  the  most  ancient  sun, 
remind  you  only  of  old  things,  the  long  ways  of  the  great 
sea,  the  roads  and  the  deserts  and  the  mountains,  the  joy  that 
Cometh  with  the  morning,  so  that  there  at  any  rate  Genoa  is 


24    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

as  she  ever  was,  a  city  of  noisy  shadowy  ways,  cool  in  the  heat, 
full  of  life,  movement,  merchandise,  and  women. 

And  as  it  happens,  this  shadowy  arcade,  so  close  to  the 
hotels  (under  which,  indeed,  you  must  make  your  way  to 
reach  one  of  the  oldest  of  these  hostelries,  the  Hotel  de  la 
Ville),  is  a  place  to  which  the  traveller  returns  again  and 
again,  weary  of  the  garish  modernity  that  has  spoiled  so  much 
of  the  city,  far  at  least  from  the  tram  lines  that  have  made 
of  so  many  Italian  cities  a  pandemonium.  It  is  from  this 
characteristic  pathway  between  the  little  shops  that  one  should 
set  out  to  explore  Genoa. 

Passing  along  this  passage  eastward,  you  soon  come  to 
the  Bank  of  St.  George,  that  black  Dogana,  built  with 
Venetian  stones  from  Constantinople,  a  monument  of  hatred 
and  perhaps  of  love, — hatred  of  the  Venetians,  of  the  Pisans 
too,  for  here  till  our  own  time  hung  the  iron  chains  of  Porto 
Pisano  that  Corrado  Doria  took  in  1290;  and  of  love,  since 
it  was  to  preserve  Genoa  and  her  dominion  that  the  Banca 
was  founded.  Over  the  door  you  may  still  see  remnants 
of  the  device  the  Guelph  Fieschi  Pope,  Innocent  vii,  gave  to 
his  native  city  when  he  came  to  see  her,  the  griffin  of  Genoa 
strangling  the  imperial  eagle  and  the  fox  of  Pisa ;  while  under 
is  the  motto,  Griphus  ut  has  agit,  sic  hostes  Genua  frangit. 

It  was  Guglielmo  Boccanegra  who  built  the  place,  as  the 
inscription  reminds  you, — it  was  his  palace.  But  only  the 
facade  landward  remains  from  his  time,  with  the  lions'  heads, 
the  great  hall  and  the  facade  seaward  dating  from  1571, 
eleven  years  after  Doria's  death.  In  the  tower  is  the  old  bell 
which  used  to  summon  the  Grand  Council ;  it  is  of  seventeenth- 
century  work,  and  was  presented  to  the  Bank  by  the  Republic 
of  Holland.^ 

Within,  the  palace  is  a  ruin,  only  the  Hall  of  Grand 
Council  being  in  any  way  worth  a  visit.  Here  you  may  see 
statues  of  the  chief  benefactors  of  the  city  from  the  middle 

*  See  Le  Mesurier,  Genoa:  Five  Lectures ^  Genoa,  A.  Donath,  1889,  a 
useful  and  informing  hook,  to  which  I  aro  indebted  for  more  than  one 
CMrious  fact. 


GENOA  25 

of  the  fourteenth  century  to  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth. 
And  by  a  curious  device  worthy  of  this  city  of  merchants, 
each  citizen  got  a  statue  according  to  his  gifts.  Those  who 
gave  100,000  lire  were  carved  sitting  there,  while  those  who 
gave  but  half  this  were  carved  standing ;  less  rich  and  less 
liberal  benefactors  got  a  bust  or  a  mere  commemorative  stone, 
each  according  to  his  liberality,  and  this  (strangely  we  may 
think),  in  a  city  so  religious  that  it  is  dedicated  to  Madonna, 
might  seem  to  leave  nothing  for  the  widow  with  her  mite  who 
gave  more  than  they  all. 

One  comes  out  of  that  dirty  and  ruined  place,  that  was 
once  so  splendid,  with  a  regret  that  modern  Italy,  which 
is  so  eager  to  build  grandiose  banks  and  every  sort  of 
public  building,  is  yet  so  regardless  of  old  things  that 
one  might  fancy  her  history  only  begun  in  i860.  Mr.  Le 
Mesurier,  in  the  interesting  book  already  referred  to,  has  sug- 
gested that  this  old  palace,  so  full  of  memories  of  Genoa's 
greatness,  should  be  used  by  the  municipality  as  a  museum 
for  Genoese  antiquities.  I  should  like  to  raise  my  voice  with 
his  in  this  cause  so  worthy  of  the  city  we  have  loved.  Is  it 
still  true  of  her,  that  though  she  is  proud  she  is  not  proud 
enough  ?  Is  it  to  be  said  of  her  who  sped  Garibaldi  on  his 
first  adventure,  that  all  her  old  glory  is  forgotten,  that  she  is 
content  with  mere  wealth,  a  thing  after  all  that  she  is  compelled 
to  share  with  the  latest  American  encampment,  in  which 
competition  she  cannot  hope  to  excel  ?  But  she  who  holds  in 
her  hands  the  dust  of  St.  John  Baptist,  who  has  seen  the  cup 
of  the  Holy  Grail,  whose  sons  stormed  Jerusalem  and  wept 
beside  the  Tomb  of  Jesus,  through  whose  streets  the  bitter 
ashes  of  Augustine  have  passed,  and  in  whose  heart  Columbus 
was  conceived,  and  a  great  Admiral  and  a  great  Saint,  is 
worthy  of  remembrance.  Let  her  gather  the  beautiful  or 
curious  remnants  of  her  great  days  about  her  now  in  the  day 
of  small  things,  that  out  of  past  splendour  new  glory  may  rise, 
for  she  also  has  ancestors,  and,  like  the  sun,  which  shall  rise  to- 
morrow, has  known  splendour  of  old. 

As  you  leave  the  Banca  di  S.  Giorgio,  if  you  continue  on 


26    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

your  way  you  will  come  on  to  the  great  ramparts,  where  you 
may  see  the  sea,  and  so  you  will  leave  Genoa  behind  you ; 
but  if,  returning  a  little  on  your  way,  you  turn  into  the  Piazza 
Banchi,  you  will  be  really  in  the  heart  of  the  old  city,  in  front 
of  the  sixteenth-century  Exchange,  Loggia  dei  Banchi,  where 
Luca  Pinelli  was  crucified  for  opposing  a  Fregoso  Doge  who 
wished  to  sell  Livorno  to  Florence.  Passing  thence  into  the 
street  of  the  jewellers,  Strada  degli  Orefici,  where  every  sort  of 
silver  filigree  work  may  be  found,  with  coral  and  amber,  you 
come  to  Madonna  of  the  Street  Comer,  a  Virgin  and  Child, 
with  S.  Lo,  the  patron  of  all  sorts  of  smiths,  a  seventeenth- 
century  work  of  Piola.  These  narrow  shadowy  ways  full  of 
men  and  women  and  joyful  with  children  are  the  delight  of 
Genoa.  There  is  but  little  to  see,  you  may  think, — little 
enough  but  just  life.  For  Genoa  is  not  a  museum  :  she  lives, 
and  the  laughter  of  her  children  is  the  greatest  of  all  the 
joyful  poems  of  Italy,  maybe  the  only  one  that  is  immortal. 

With  this  thought  in  your  heart  (as  it  is  sure  to  be 
everywhere  in  Italy)  you  return  (as  one  continually  does)  to 
the  Arcades,  and  turning  to  the  left  you  follow  them  till  you 
come  to  Via  S.  Lorenzo,  in  which  is  the  Duomo  all  of  white 
and  black  marble,  a  jewel  with  mystery  in  its  heart,  hidden 
away  among  the  houses  of  life. 

It  was  built  on  the  site  of  a  church  which  commemorated 
the  passing  of  S.  Lorenzo  through  Genoa.  Much  of  the 
present  church  is  work  of  the  twelfth  century,  such  as  the 
side  doors  and  the  walls,  but  the  fagade  was  built  early  in  the 
fourteenth  century,  while  the  tower  and  the  choir  were  not 
finished  till  1 6 1 7.  The  dome  was  made  by  Galeazzo  Alessi, 
the  Perugian  who  built  so  much  in  Genoa,  as  we  shall  see  later. 
Possibly  the  bas-reliefs  strewn  on  the  north  wall  are  work  of 
the  Roman  period,  but  they  are  not  of  much  interest  save  to 
an  archeologist. 

Within,  the  church  is  dark,  and  this  I  think  is  a  dis- 
appointment, nor  is  it  very  rich  or  lovely.  Some  work  of 
Matteo  Civitali  is  still  to  be  seen  in  a  side  chapel  on  the 
left,  but  the  only  remarkable  thing  in  the  church  itself  is  t^e 


GENOA  27 

chapel  of  St.  John  Baptist,  into  which  no  woman  may  enter, 
because  of  the  dancing  of  Salome,  daughter  of  Herodias. 
There  in  a  marble  urn  the  ashes  of  the  Messenger  have  lain 
for  eight  centuries,  not  without  worship,  for  here  have  knelt 
Pope  Alexander  in,  our  own  Richard  Cordelion,  Federigo  Bar- 
barossa  Henry  iv  after  Canossa,  Innocent  iv.  fugitive  before 
Federigo  11,  Henry  vii  of  Germany,  St.  Catherine  of  Siena, 
and,  often  too,  St.  Catherine  Adorni,  Louis  xii  of  France, 
Don  John  of  Austria  after  Lepanto,  and  maybe  too,  who 
knows,  Velasquez  of  Spain,  Vandyck  from  England,  and 
behind  them,  all  the  misery  of  Genoa  through  the  centuries, 
an  immense  and  pitiful  company  of  men  and  women  crying 
in  the  silence  to  him  who  had  cried  in  the  wilderness. 

Other  curious,  strange,  and  wonderful  things,  too,  S.  Lorenzo 
holds  for  us  in  her  treasury :  a  piece  of  the  True  Cross  set  in 
a  cruciform  casket  of  gold  crusted  with  precious  stones,  stolen, 
as  most  relics  have  been,  this  one  from  the  Venetians  in  the 
fourth  Crusade,  when  the  Emperor  Baldwin,  whom  Venice  had 
crowned,  sent  it  as  gift  to  Pope  Innocent  in  by  a  Venetian 
galley,  which,  caught  in  a  storm,  took  shelter  in  Modone  in 
Hellas,  where  two  Genoese  galleys  found  her  and,  having 
looted  her,  sent  the  relic  to  S.  Lorenzo  in  Genoa  magnanim- 
ously, as  Giustiniani  says.  Here  also  beside  this  wonder 
you  may  see  the  cup  of  the  Holy  Grail,  stolen  by  the  French, 
who,  forced  to  return  it,  sent  this  broken  green  glass  in  place 
of  the  perfect  emerald  they  carried  away ;  or  maybe,  who 
knows,  it  was  but  glass  in  the  beginning.  Yet,  indeed,  the 
Genoese  paid  a  great  price  for  it,  thinking  it  truly  the 
emerald  of  the  Precious  Blood,  but  they  may  have  deceived 
themselves  in  the  joy  that  followed  the  winning  of  the  Holy 
City :  though  that  is  not  like  Genoa.  However  this  may  be, 
and  with  relics  you  are  as  like  to  be  right  as  wrong  whatever 
your  opinion,  there  is  but  httle  else  worth  seeing  in  S. 
Lorenzo. 

As  you  follow  the  Via  S.  Lorenzo  upwards,  you  come 
presently  on  your  left  to  the  Piazza  Umberto  Primo,  in  which 
is  the  Palazzo  Ducale,  the  ancient  palace  of  the  Doges,  re- 


28    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

built  finally  in  1777;  and  at  last,  still  ascending,  you  find 
yourself  in  the  great  shapeless  Piazza  Deferrari,  with  its  statue 
to  Garibaldi,  while  at  the  top  of  the  Via  S.  Lorenzo  on  your 
right  is  the  Church  of  S.  Ambrogio,  built  by  Pallavicini,  with 
three  pictures,  a  Guido  Reni,  the  Assumption  of  the 
Virgin,  and  two  Rubens,  the  Circumcision  and  S.  Ignatius 
healing  a  madman.  Not  far  away  (for  you  turn  into  Piazza 
Deferrari  and  take  the  second  street  to  the  left,  Strada  S. 
Matteo)  is  the  great  Doria  Church  of  S.  Matteo,  in  black  and 
white  marble,  a  sort  of  mausoleum  of  the  Doria  family. 
Now,  the  family  of  Doria,  one  of  the  most  ancient  in  Genoa, 
the  Spinola  clan  alone  being  older,  emerges  really  about  11 00, 
and  takes  its  rise,  we  are  told,  from  Arduin,  a  knight  of 
Narbonne,  who,  resting  in  Genoa  on  his  way  to  Jerusalem, 
married  Oria,  a  daughter  of  the  Genoese  house  of  della 
Volta.  However  this  may  be,  in  1125a  certain  Martino  Doria 
founded  the  Church  of  S.  Matteo,  which  has  since  remained 
the  burial-place  and  monument  of  his  race.  Martino  Doria 
is  said  to  have  become  a  monk,  and  to  have  died  in  the 
monastery  of  S.  Fruttuoso  at  Portofino,  where,  too,  lie  many 
of  the  Doria  family;  but  certainly  as  early  as  1298  S.  Matteo 
became  the  monument  of  the  Doria  greatness,  for  Lamba 
Doria,  the  victor  of  Curzola,  where  he  beat  the  Venetian  fleet, 
was  laid  here,  as  you  may  see  from  the  inscription  on  the  old 
sarcophagus  at  the  foot  of  the  facade  of  the  church  to  the 
right.  The  faQade  itself  is  covered  with  inscriptions  in  honour 
of  various  members  of  the  family :  first,  to  Lamba,  with  an 
account  of  the  battle.  It  reads  as  follows  :  "  To  the  glory  of 
God  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary,  in  the  year  1298,  on 
Sunday  7  September,  this  angel  was  taken  in  Venetian 
waters  in  the  city  of  Curzola,  and  in  that  place  was  the  battle 
of  76  Genoese  galleys  with  86  Venetian  galleys,  of  which 
84  were  taken  by  the  noble  Lord  Lamba  Doria,  then  Captain 
and  Admiral  of  the  Commune  and  of  the  People  of  Genoa, 
with  the  men  on  them,  of  which  he  brought  back  to  Genoa 
alive  as  prisoners  7400,  along  with  18  galleys,  and  the  other 
66  he  caused  to  be  burpt  in  the  said  Venetian  waters, — he 


GENOA  29 

died  at  Savona  in  1323."  ^  It  was  in  this  engagement  that 
Marco  Polo  was  taken  prisoner  and  brought  to  Genoa. 

The  second  inscription  on  this  facade  refers  to  the  battle  of 
Sapienza,  when  in  1354  Pagano  Doria  beat  the  Venetians  off 
the  coast  of  Greece.  It  reads  as  follows  :  ^  "In  honour  of  God 
and  the  Blessed  Mary.  In  the  fourth  day  of  November  1354, 
the  noble  Lord  Pagano  Doria  with  31  Genoese  galleys,  at 
the  Island  of  Sapienza,  fought  and  took  36  Venetian  galleys 
and  four  ships,  and  led  to  Genoa  1400  men  alive  as  captives 
with  their  captain." 

The  third  inscription  deals  again  with  a  defeat  of  the 
Venetians,  won  by  Luciano  Doria  in  1379.  It  reads  as 
follows : ^  "To  the  glory  of  God  and  the  Blessed  Mary.  In 
the  year  1379,  on  the  5th  day  of  May,  in  the  Gulf  of  the 
Venetians  near  Pola,  there  was  a  battle  of  22  Genoese 
galleys  with  22  galleys  of  the  Venetians,  in  which  were  4075 
men-at-arms  and  many  other  men  from  Pola;  of  which 
galleys  16  were  taken  with  all  that  was  in  them  by  the  noble 
Lord  Luciano  Doria,  Captain  General  of  the  Commune  of 
Genoa,  who  in  the  said  battle  while  fighting  valiantly  met  his 
death.  The  sixteen  galleys  of  the  Venetians  were  conducted 
into  Genoa  with  2407  captive  men." 

The  fourth  inscription  refers  to  the  earlier  victory  of  Oberto 
Doria  over  the  Pisans.  It  is  as  follows  : *  "In  the  name  of 
the  Holy  Trinity,  in  the  year  of  Our  Lord  1284,  on  the  6th 
day  of  August,  the  high  and  mighty  Lord  Oberto  Doria,  at 
that  time  Captain  and  Admiral  of  the  Commune  and  of  the 
Genoese  people,  triumphed  in  the  Pisan  waters  over  the 
Pisans,  taking  from  them  33  galleys  w^ith  7  sunk  and  all  the 
rest  put  to  flight,  and  with  many  dead  men  left  in  the  waters ; 
and  he  returned  to  Genoa  with  a  great  multitude  of  captives, 
so  that  7272  were  placed  in  the  prisons.     There  was  taken 

*  See  Le  Mesurier,  op.  cit.  p.  82.  Le  Mesurier  thinks  that  "this 
angel"  refers  to  "the  central  figure  in  a  bas-relief"  above  the  inscription 
and  below  the  right-hand  window  of  the  church. 

'  See  Le  Mesurier,  op.  cit.  p.  98. 
'  See  Le  Mesurier,  op.  cit.  p.  107. 

*  See  Le  Mesurier,  op.  cit.  p.  78. 


JO    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Andrea  Morosini  of  Venice,  then  Podestk  and  Captain  General 
in  war  of  the  Commune  of  Pisa,  with  the  standard  of  the 
Commune,  captured  by  the  galleys  of  Doria  and  brought  to 
this  church  with  the  seal  of  the  Commune,  and  there  was  also 
taken  Loto,  the  son  of  Count  Ugolino,  and  a  great  part  of  the 
Pisan  nobiHty." 

The  fifth  inscription  refers  to  the  victory  of  Filippino  Doria, 
nephew  to  the  great  Admiral  over  the  Spanish  galleys  in  the 
Gulf  of  Salerno,  which  led  Andrea,  to  the  consternation  of 
Genoa,  to  attack  the  Pope's  galleys  at  Civitavecchia. 

Withm,  the  church  was  altered  in  1530  by  Montorsoli,  the 
Florentine  who  was  brought  from  Florence  by  the  Admiral. 
And  there  above  the  high  altar  hangs  his  sword,  given  him  by 
Pope  Paul  III,  his  friend  and  enemy.  There,  too,  in  the  left 
aisle  is  the  Doria  chapel,  with  a  picture  of  Andrea  and  his 
wife  kneeling  before  our  Lord.  In  the  crypt,  which  was 
decorated  in  stucco  by  Montorsoli,  you  may  see  his  tomb. 

Questo  k  quel  Doria,  che  fa  dai  Pirati 
Sicuro  il  vostro  mar  per  tutti  i  lati. 

The  beautiful  cloister  contains  the  statues  of  Andrea  and 
Giovandrea,  broken  by  the  people  in  1797.  Close  by  is  the 
Doria  Palace,  given  by  the  Republic  to  Andrea  when  he 
refused  the  office  of  Doge.  It  is  decorated  with  the  privileged 
black  and  white  marble,  and  bears  the  inscription,  Sena/. 
Cons.  Andrea;    de  Oria  Patria  Liberatori  Munus  Publicium. 

If  you  return  from  S.  Matteo  to  the  Piazza  Deferrari  and 
then  follow  the  Via  Carlo  Felice  (and  without  some  sort  of 
guidance  such  as  this  you  are  like  to  be  lost  in  the  maze 
of  the  city)  on  your  way  to  the  beautiful  Piazza  Fontane 
Marose,  you  pass  on  your  left  the  Palazzo  Pallavicini,  empty 
now  of  all  its  treasures. 

On  your  right  as  you  enter  this  square  of  palaces  is  the 
Palazzo  della  Casa,  once  the  Palazzo  Spinola,  decorated  with 
the  black  and  white  marble,  built  in  the  early  part  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  in  the  place  where  the  old  tower  of  that 
great   family   once   stood.     It   is    the   palace   of  the   oldest 


GENOA  31 

Genoese  family,  and  the  statues  in  the  fagade  represent 
the  most  famous  members  of  the  clan,  as  Oberto,  the  son  of 
the  founder  of  this  branch  of  the  race,  the  Luccoli  Spinoias, 
Conrado,  who  ruled  the  city  in  1206,  and  Opizino,  who 
married  his  daughter  to  Theodore  Paleologus,  Emperor  of  Con- 
stantinople, and  lived  like  a  king  and  was  banished  in  1309. 
The  palace  itself  is  said  to  have  been  built  with  the  remains 
of  the  Fieschi  palace  which  the  Senate  destroyed  in  1336. 
Beyond  it  rise  the  Palazzo  Negrone  and  the  Palazzo  Pallavicini, 
while  opposite  the  Negrone  Palace  the  Via  Nuova,  now  called 
Via  Garibaldi  (for  the  Italians  have  a  bad  habit  of  renaming 
their  old  streets),  opens,  a  vista  of  palaces,  where  all  the  great- 
ness and  splendour  of  Genoa  rise  up  before  you  in  houses  of 
marble,  and  courtyards  musical  with  fountains,  walks  splendid 
with  frescoes,  and  rooms  full  of  pictures. 

Before  passing  into  this  street  of  palaces,  however,  the 
traveller  should  follow  the  difficult  Salita  di  S.  Caterina,  which 
climbs  between  Palazzo  della  Casa  and  Palazzo  Negrone 
towards  the  Acqua  Sola,  that  lovely  garden,  passing  on  his  way 
the  old  Palazzo  Spinola,  where  many  an  old  and  precious 
canvas  still  hangs  on  the  walls,  and  the  spoiled  frescoes  of 
the  beautiful  portico  are  fading  in  the  sun. 

It  is  perhaps  in  the  Via  Garibaldi,  Via  Cairoli,  and  Via 
Balbi,  avenues  of  palaces  narrow  because  of  the  summer  sun, 
bordered  on  either  side  by  triumphant  slums,  that  the 
real  Genoa  splendid  and  living  may  best  be  surprised. 
Here,  amid  all  the  grave  and  yet  homely  magnificence 
of  the  princes  of  the  State,  life,  with  a  brilliance  and 
a  misery  all  its  own,  ebbs  and  flows,  and  is  not  to  be  denied. 
Between  two  palaces  of  marble,  silent,  and  full  maybe  of  the 
masterpieces  of  dead  painters,  you  may  catch  sight  of  the 
city  of  the  people,  a  "  truogolo  "  perhaps  with  a  great  fountain 
in  the  midst,  where  the  girls  and  women  are  washing  clothes, 
and  the  children,  whole  companies  of  them,  play  about  the 
doorways,  while  above,  the  houses,  and  indeed  the  court  itself, 
are  bright  with  coloured  cloths  and  linen  dr}'ing  in  the  wind 
and  the  sun.     It  is  a  city  like  London  that  you  discover, 


32    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

living  fiercely  and  with  all  its  might,  but  without  the  brutality 
of  our  more  terrible  life,  where  as  here  wealth  rises  up  in 
the  midst  of  poverty,  only  here  wealth  is  noble  and  without 
the  blatancy  and  self-satisfaction  you  find  in  our  squares,  and 
poverty  has  not  lost  all  its  joyfulness,  its  air  of  simplicity  and 
romance,  as  it  has  with  us. 

It  is  these  palaces,  so  noble  and,  as  one  might  think,  so 
deserted,  that  Galeazzo  Alessi  built  in  the  sixteenth  century 
for  the  nobles  of  Genoa.  And  it  is  his  work,  whole  streets 
of  it,  that  has  named  the  city  the  City  of  Palaces,  as  we  say, 
and  has  given  her  something  of  that  proud  look  which  clings 
to  her  in  her  title.  La  Superba.  Yet  not  altogether  from  the 
magnificence  of  her  old  streets  has  this  name  come  to  her, 
but  in  part  from  the  character  of  her  people,  and  in  great 
measure,  too,  from  her  brave  position  there  between  the  moun- 
tains and  the  sea,  a  city  of  precious  stone  in  an  amphitheatre 
of  noble  hills.  Nothing  that  Genoa  could  build,  steal,  or  win 
could  even  be  so  splendid  as  that  birthright  of  hers,  her 
place  among  the  mountains  on  the  shores  of  the  great 
sea.  " 

As  one  enters  Via  Garibaldi  from  Piazza  Marose  down  the 
vistaed  street  where  a  precious  strip  of  the  blue  sky  seems 
more  lovely  for  the  shadowy  way,  the  first  house  on  the 
right  is  Palazzo  Cambiaso,  built  by  Alessi,  while  on  the 
left,  No.  2,  is  Palazzo  Gambaro,  which  belonged  to  the 
Cambiaso  family.  No.  3  on  the  right  is  Palazzo  Parodi, 
another  of  Alessi's  works,  built  in  1567  for  Franco  Lercaro  ; 
No.  4  is  Palazzo  Carega ;  No.  5,  Palazzo  Spinola,  again  by 
Alessi ;  while  Palazzo  Giorgio  Doria,  No.  6,  was  also  built  by 
him.  Here,  beside  frescoes  by  the  Genoese  Luca  Cambiaso, 
you  may  find  a  Vandyck,  a  portrait  of  a  lady  and  a  Sussanah 
by  Veronese.  In  the  Palazzo  Adomo  too,  No.  10,  the  work 
of  Alessi,  you  may  find  several  fine  pictures,  among  them 
three  trionfi  in  the  manner  of  Botticelli,  and  a  Rubens; 
while  in  Palazzo  Serra,  No.  12,  though  you  may  not  enter, 
there  is  a  fine  hall.  The  Palazzo  Municipale,  built  by  Rocco 
Lurago  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  has  five  frescoes 


GENOA  33 

of  the  life  of  the  Doge   Grimaldi,  and  Paganini's  violin,  a 
Guarnerius,  on  which  Senor  Sarasate  played  not  long  ago. 

It  is,  however,  in  Palazzo  Rosso,  No.  i8,  possibly  a  work 
of  Alessi's,  that  you  may  see  what  these  Genoese  palaces 
really  are,  for  the  Marchesa  Maria  Brignole-Sale,  to  whom 
it  belonged,  presented  it  to  the  city  in  1874.  It  is  into  a 
vestibule,  desolate  enough  certainly,  that  you  pass  out  of  the 
life  of  the  street,  and,  ascending  the  great  bare  staircase,  come 
at  last  on  the  third  storey  into  the  picture  gallery.  There 
is,  after  all,  but  little  to  see ;  for,  splendid  though  some  of 
the  pictures  may  once  have  been,  they  are  now  for  the  most 
part  ruined.  There  remains,  however,  a  Moretto,  the  portrait 
of  a  Physician,  and  the  portrait  of  the  Marchese  Antonio 
Giulio  Brignole-Sale  on  horseback,  the  beautiful  work  of 
Vandyck.  Looking  at  this  picture  and  its  fellow,  the  portrait 
of  the  Marchesa,  it  is  with  sorrow  we  remember  the  fate  that 
has  befallen  so  many  of  Vandyck's  masterpieces  painted  in 
this  city.  For  either  they  have  been  carried  away,  as  the 
magnificent  group  of  the  Lommellini  family  to  Edinburgh, 
the  Marchesa  Brignole  with  her  child  to  England,  or  they 
have  been  repainted  and  spoiled. 

It  was  in  1 621,  on  the  3rd  October,  that  Vandyck,  mounted 
on  "  the  best  horse  in  Rubens'  stables,"  set  out  from  Antwerp 
for  Italy.  After  staying  a  short  while  in  Brussels,  he  journeyed 
without  further  delay  across  France  to  Genoa,  With  him 
came  Rubens'  friend,  Cavaliere  Giambattista  Nani.  He 
reached  Genoa  on  20th  November,  where  his  friends  of  the 
de  Wael  family  greeted  him. 

The  city  of  Genoa,  herself  without  a  school  of  painting, 
had  welcomed  Rubens  not  long  before  very  gladly,  nor  had 
Vandyck  any  cause  to  complain  of  her  ingratitude.  He 
appears  to  have  set  himself  to  paint  in  the  style  of  Rubens, 
choosing  similar  subjects,  at  any  rate,  and  thus  to  have  won 
for  himself,  with  such  work  as  the  Young  Bacchantes,  now  in 
Lord  Belper's  collection,  or  the  Drunken  Silenus,  now  in 
Brussels,  a  reputation  but  little  inferior  to  his  master's. 
Certainly  at  this  time  his  work  is  very  Flemish  in  character, 

3 


34    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

and  apparently  it  was  not  till  he  had  been  to  Venice,  Mantua, 
and  Rome  that  the  influence  of  Italy  and  the  Italian  masters 
may  be  really  found  in  his  work.  A  disciple  of  Titian  almost 
from  his  youth,  it  is  the  work  of  that  master  which  gradually 
emancipates  him  from  Flemish  barbarism,  from  a  too  serious 
occupation  with  detail,  the  over-emphasis  of  northern  work, 
the  mere  boisterousness,  without  any  real  distinction,  that 
too  often  spoils  Rubens  for  us,  and  yet  is  so  easily  excused 
and  forgotten  in  the  mere  joy  of  life  everywhere  to  be  found 
in  it.  Well,  with  this  shy  and  refined  mind  Italy  is  able  to 
accomplish  her  mission  ;  she  humanises  him,  gives  him  the 
Latin  sensibility  and  clarity  of  mind,  the  Latin  refinement 
too,  so  that  we  are  ready  to  forget  he  was  Rubens*  country- 
man, and  think  of  him  often  enough  as  an  Englishman, 
endowed  as  he  was  with  much  of  the  delicate  and  lovely 
genius  of  so  many  of  our  artists,  full  of  a  passionate  yet  shy 
strength,  that  some  may  think  is  the  result  of  continual 
communion  with  Latin  things,  with  Italy  and  Italian  work, 
Italian  verse,  Italian  painting,  on  the  part  of  a  race  not  Latin, 
but  without  the  immobility,  the  want  of  versatility,  common  to 
the  Germans,  which  has  robbed  them  of  any  great  painter 
since  the  early  Renaissance,  and  in  politics  has  left  them  to 
be  the  last  people  of  Europe  to  win  emancipation. 

Much  of  this  enlightening  effect  that  Italy  has  upon  the 
northerner  may  be  found  in  the  work  of  Vandyck  on  his 
return  to  Genoa,  really  a  new  thing  in  the  world,  as  new  as 
the  poetry  of  Spenser  had  been,  at  any  rate,  and  with  much 
of  his  gravity  and  sweet  melancholy  or  pensiveness,  in  those 
magnificent  portraits  of  the  Genoese  nobility  which  time  and 
fools  have  so  sadly  misused.  And  as  though  to  confirm  us  in 
this  thought  of  him,  we  may  see,  as  it  were,  the  story  of  his 
development  during  this  journey  to  the  south  in  the  sketch- 
book in  the  possession  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire.  Here, 
amid  any  number  of  sketches,  thoughts  as  it  were  that 
Titian  has  suggested,  or  Giorgione  evoked,  we  see  the  very 
dawn  of  all  that  we  have  come  to  consider  as  especially  his 
own.      We   may  understand  how  the  pride   and  boisterous 


GENOA  35 

magnificence  of  Rubens  came  to  seem  a  little  insistent,  a 
little  stupid  too,  beside  Leonardo's  Virgin  and  Child  with  St. 
Anne,  now  in  the  Louvre,  which  he  notes  in  Milan,  or  that 
Last  Supper  which  is  now  but  a  shadow  on  the  wall  of  S. 
Maria  dalle  Grazie.  And  above  all,  we  may  see  how  the 
true  splendour  of  Titian  exposes  the  ostentation  of  Rubens, 
as  the  sun  will  make  even  the  greatest  fire  look  dingy  and 
boastful.  Gradually  Vandyck,  shy  and  of  a  quiet,  serene 
spirit,  becomes  aware  of  this,  and,  led  by  the  immeasurable 
glory  of  the  Venetians,  slowly  escapes  from  that  **  Flemish 
manner"  to  be  master  of  himself;  so  that,  after  he  has 
painted  in  the  manner  of  Titian  at  Palermo,  he  returns 
to  Genoa  to  begin  that  wonderful  series  of  masterpieces  we 
all  know,  in  which  he  has  immortalised  the  tragedy  of  a  king, 
the  sorrowful  beauty,  frail  and  lovely  as  a  violet,  of  Henrietta 
Maria,  and  the  fate  of  the  Princes  of  England.  And  though 
many  of  the  pictures  he  painted  in  Genoa  are  dispersed,  and 
many  spoiled,  some  few  remain  to  tell  us  of  his  passing. 
One,  a  Christ  and  the  Pharisees,  is  in  the  Palazzo  Bianco,  not 
far  from  Palazzo  Rosso,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Via  Garibaldi. 
But  here  there  is  a  fine  Rubens  too ;  a  Gerard  David,  very  like 
the  altar-piece  at  Rouen  ;  a  good  Ruysdael,  with  some  character- 
istic Spanish  pictures  by  Zurbaran,  Ribera,  and  Murillo ;  and 
while  the  Italian  pictures  are  negligible,  though  some  paintings 
and  drawings  of  the  Genoese  school  may  interest  us  in  passing, 
it  is  characteristic  of  Genoa  that  our  interest  in  this  collection 
should  be  with  the  foreign  work  there. 

As  you  leave  Via  Garibaldi  and  pass  down  Via  Cairoli,  on 
your  left  you  pass  Via  S.  Siro.  Turning  down  this  little  way, 
you  come  almost  immediately  to  the  Church  of  S.  Siro.  The 
present  building  dates  from  the  seventeenth  century,  but  the 
old  church,  then  called  Dei  Dodici  Apostoli,  was  the  Cathedral 
of  Genoa.  It  was  close  by  that  the  blessed  Sirus  "drew 
out  the  dreadful  serpent  named  Basilisk  in  the  year  550." 
What  this  serpent  may  really  have  been  no  one  knows,  but 
Carlone  has  painted  the  scene  in  fresco  in  S.  Siro. 

Returning    to    Via     Cairoli,    at    the    bottom,    in  Piazza 


36    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Zecca  on  your  left,  is  one  of  the  Balbi  palaces  ;  while  in  Piazza 
Annunziata,  a  little  farther  on,  you  come  to  the  beautiful 
Church  of  Santissima  Annunziata  del  Vastato,  built  by  Delia 
Porta  in  1587. 

Crossing  this  Piazza,  you  enter  perhaps  the  most  splendid 
street  in  Genoa,  Via  Balbi,  which  climbs  up  at  last  to  the  Piazza 
Acquaverde,  the  Statue  of  Columbus,  and  the  Railway.  The 
first  palace  on  your  right  is  Palazzo  Durazzo-Pallavicini,  with 
a  fine  picture  gallery.  Here  you  may  see  two  fine  Rubens,  a 
portrait  of  Philip  iv  of  Spain,  and  a  Silenus  with  Bacchantes, 
a  great  picture  of  James  i  of  England  with  his  family,  painted 
by  some  "  imitator  "  of  Vandyck,  though  who  it  was  in  Genoa 
that  knew  both  Vandyck  and  England  is  not  yet  clear ;  a 
Ribera,  a  Reni,  a  Tintoretto,  a  Domenichino,  and  above  all  else 
Vandyck's  Boy  in  White  Satin,  in  the  midst  of  these  ruined 
pictures  which  certainly  once  would  have  given  us  joy.  The 
Boy  in  White  Satin  is  perhaps  the  loveliest  picture  Vandyck 
left  behind  him ;  though  it  is  but  partly  his  after  all,  the  fruit, 
the  parrot,  and  the  monkey  being  the  work  of  Snyders. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Via  Balbi,  almost  opposite  the 
Palazzo  Durazzo  -  Pallavicini,  is  the  Palazzo  Balbi,  which 
possesses  the  loveliest  cortile  in  Genoa,  with  an  orange  garden, 
and  in  the  Great  Hall  a  fine  gallery  of  pictures.  Here  is  the 
Vandyck  portrait  of  Philip  11  of  Spain,  which  Velasquez  not 
only  used  as  a  model,  or  at  least  remembered  when  he 
painted  his  equestrian  Olivarez  in  the  Prado,  but  which  he 
changed,  for  originally  it  was  a  portrait  of  Francesco  Maria 
Balbi,  till,  as  is  said,  Velasquez  came  and  painted  there  the 
face  of  Philip  11.  Certainly  Velasquez  may  have  sketched 
the  picture  and  used  it  later,  but  it  seems  unlikely  that  he 
would  have  painted  the  face  of  Philip  11,  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  though  the  Genoese  at  that  time  might  well  have  asked 
him  to  do  so.^ 

As  you  continue  on  your  way  up  Via  Balbi,  you  have  on 
your  right  the  Palazzo  dell'  University  with  its  magnificent 

'  See  Justi,  Velasquez  and  his  Times  (English  translalion),  1880,  page  315, 
and  Le  Mesurier,  op.  cit.,  page  163. 


GENOA  37 

staircase  built  in  1623  by  Bartolommeo  Bianco.  Some  statues 
by  Giovanni  da  Bologna  make  it  worth  a  visit,  while  the  tomb 
of  Simone  Boccanegra,  the  great  Doge,  makes  such  a  visit 
pious  and  necessary. 

Opposite  the  University  is  the  Palazzo  Reale,  which  once 
belonged  to  the  Durazzo  family.  A  crucifixion  by  Vandyck 
is  perhaps  not  too  spoiled  to  be  still  called  his  work. 

So  at  last  you  will  come  to  the  Piazza  Acquaverde  and  the 
Statue  of  Columbus,  which  is  altogether  dwarfed  by  the 
Railway  Station.  Not  far  away  to  the  left,  behind  this  last, 
you  will  find  the  great  Palazzo  Doria.  It  is  almost  nothing 
now,  but  in  John  Evelyn's  day,  when  accompanied  by  that 
"  most  courteous  marchand  called  Tomson,"  he  went  to  see 
"  the  rarities,"  it  was  still  full  of  its  old  splendour.  "  One 
of  the  greatest  palaces  here  for  circuit,"  he  writes,  "  is  that  of 
the  Prince  D'Orias,  which  reaches  from  the  sea  to  the  summit 
of  the  mountains.  The  house  is  most  magnificently  built 
without,  nor  less  gloriously  furnished  within,  having  whole 
tables  and  bedsteads  of  massy  silver,  many  of  them  sett  with 
orchates,  onyxes,  cornelians,  lazulis,  pearls,  turquizes,  and 
other  precious  stones.  The  pictures  and  statues  are  innum- 
erable. To  this  palace  belong  three  gardens,  the  first 
whereof  is  beautified  with  a  terrace  supported  by  pillars  of 
marble ;  there  is  a  fountaine  of  eagles,  and  one  of  Neptune,  with 
other  sea-gods,  all  of  the  purest  white  marble  :  they  stand  in  a 
most  ample  basin  of  the  same  stone.  At  the  side  of  this 
garden  is  such  an  aviary  as  S'.  Fra.  Bacon  describes  in  his 
Sermones  Fideliiivi  or  Essays,  wherein  grow  trees  of  more  than 
two  foote  diameter,  besides  cypresse,  myrtils,  lentiscs,  and 
other  rare  shrubs,  which  serve  to  nestle  and  pearch  all  sorts  of 
birds,  who  have  an  ayre  and  place  enough  under  their  ayrie 
canopy  supported  with  huge  iron  work  stupendious  for  its 
fabrick  and  the  charge.  The  other  two  gardens  are  full  of 
orange  trees,  citrons,  and  pomegranates ;  fountaines,  grotts,  and 
statues ;  one  of  the  latter  is  a  colossal  Jupiter,  under  which 
is  a  sepulchre  of  a  beloved  dog,  for  the  care  of  which  one  of 
this  family  receiv'd  of  the  K.  of  Spayne  500  crownes  a  yeare 


38    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

during  the  life  of  the  faithful  animal.  The  reservoir  of  water 
here  is  a  most  admirable  piece  of  art ;  and  so  is  the  grotto 
over  against  it." 

Close  by  Palazzo  Doria  is  the  Church  of  S.  Giovarmi 
di  Prfe,  with  its  English  tomb  and  Lombard  tower,  and 
memories  of  the  two  Urban  popes  Urban  v  and  Urban  vi, 
the  first  of  whom  stayed  here  on  his  way  back  to  Rome  from 
the  Babylonian  captivity,  while  the  other  murdered  eight  of 
his  Cardinals  close  by,  and  threw  their  bodies  into  the  sea. 
This  is  the  quarter  of  booty,  the  booty  of  the  Crusaders,  and 
it  is  in  such  a  place  and  in  the  older  part  of  the  town  near 
Piazza  Sarzano  and  in  the  narrow  ways  behind  the  Exchange 
that,  as  I  think,  Genoa  seems  most  herself  the  port  of  the 
Mediterranean,  the  gate  of  Italy.  Yet  what  I  prefer  in  Genoa 
are  her  triumphant  slums,  then  the  palaces  and  villas  with 
their  bigness,  so  impressive  for  us  who  came  from  the  North, 
which  seem  to  be  a  remnant  of  Roman  greatness,  a  vision 
as  it  were  of  solidity  and  grandeur.  Something  of  this,  it  is 
true,  haunts  almost  every  Italian  city ;  only  nowhere  but  in 
Genoa  can  you  see  so  many  palaces  together,  whole  streets  of 
them,  huge,  overwhelming,  and  yet  beautiful  houses,  that  often 
seem  deserted,  as  though  they  belonged  to  a  greater  and 
more  splendid  age  than  ours. 

It  is  altogether  another  aspect  of  these  splendid  buildings 
that  you  see  from  the  ramparts  towards  Nervi,  from  the  height 
of  the  Via  Corsica  or  from  the  hills.  From  there,  with  the 
whole  strength  and  glory  of  the  sea  before  you,  these  palaces, 
which  in  the  midst  of  the  city  are  so  indestructible  and  im- 
mortal, seem  flowerlike,  full  of  delicate  hues,  fragile  and 
almost  as  though  about  to  fade ;  you  think  of  hyacinths,  of 
the  blossom  of  the  magnolia,  of  the  fleeting  lilac,  and  the  lily 
that  towers  in  the  moonlight  to  fall  at  dawn.  Returning  to 
the  city  in  the  twilight  with  all  this  passing  and  fragile  glory 
in  your  eyes,  it  is  again  another  emotion  that  you  receive 
when,  on  entering  the  city,  you  find  yourself  caught  in  the 
immense  crowd  of  working  people  flocking  homewards  or  to 
Piazza  Deferrari,  to   the  caf^s,  through  the  narrow  streets, 


GENOA  39 

amid  swarms  of  children,  laughing,  running,  gesticulating  or 
fighting  with  one  another.  From  the  roofs  where  they 
seem  to  live,  from  the  high  narrow  windows,  the  warren 
of  houses  that  would  be  hovels  in  the  North,  but  here  in 
the  sun  are  picturesque,  women  look  down  lazily  and  cry 
out,  with  a  shrillness  peculiar  to  Genoa,  to  their  friends 
in  the  street.  It  is  a  bath  of  multitude  that  you  are 
compelled  to  take,  full  of  a  sort  of  pungent,  invigorating, 
tonic  strength,  life  crowding  upon  you  and  thrusting  itself 
under  your  notice  without  ceremony  or  announcement.  If 
on  the  2nd  November  you  chance  to  be  in  Genoa,  you  will 
find  the  same  insatiable  multitude  eagerly  flocking  to  the 
cemetery,  that  strange  and  impossible  museum  of  modern 
sculpture,  where  the  dead  are  multiplied  by  an  endless  appari- 
tion of  crude  marble  shapes,  the  visions  of  the  vulgar  hacked 
out  in  dazzling,  stainless  white  stone.  What  would  we  not 
give  for  such  a  "  document "  from  the  thirteenth  century  as 
this  cemetery  has  come  to  be  of  our  own  time.  It  is  the 
crude  representation  of  modern  Italian  life  that  you  see, 
realistic,  unique,  and  precious,  but  for  the  most  part  base  and 
horrible  beyond  words.  All  the  disastrous,  sensual,  covetous 
meanness,  the  mere  baseness  of  the  modern  world,  is  expressed 
there  with  a  naivete  that  is,  by  some  miraculous  transfiguration, 
humorous  with  all  the  grim  humour  of  that  thief  death,  who 
has  gathered  these  poor  souls  with  the  rest  because  someone 
loved  them  and  they  were  of  no  account.  The  husk  of  the 
immortality  of  the  poet  and  the  hero  has  been  thrust  upon  the 
mean  and  disgusting  clay  of  the  stockbroker;  the  grocer, 
horribly  wrapped  in  everlasting  marble,  has  put  on  ignominy  for 
evermore ;  while  the  plebeian,  bewildered  by  the  tyranny  of 
life,  crouches  over  his  dead  wife,  for  ever  afraid  lest  death 
tap  him  too  on  the  shoulder.  How  the  wind  whistles  among 
these  immortal  jests,  where  the  pure  stone  of  the  Carrara 
hills  has  been  fashioned  to  the  ugliness  of  the  middle  classes. 
This  is  the  supreme  monument  not  of  Genoa  only,  but  of  our 
time.  In  that  grotesque  marble  we  see  our  likeness.  For 
there  is  gathered  in  indestructible  stone  all  the  fear,  ostentation, 


40    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

and  vulgar  pride  of  our  brothers.  Ah,  poor  souls  !  that  for  a 
little  minute  have  come  into  the  world,  and  are  eager  not 
altogether  to  be  forgotten ;  they  too,  like  the  ancients,  have 
desired  immortality,  and,  seeing  the  hills,  have  sought  to 
establish  their  mediocrity  among  them.  Therefore,  with  an 
obscene  and  vulgar  gesture,  they  have  set  up  their  own  image 
as  well  as  they  could,  and,  in  a  frenzied  prayer  to  an  unknown 
God,  seem  to  ask,  now  that  everything  has  fallen  away  and 
we  can  no  longer  believe  in  the  body,  that  they  may  not  be 
too  disgusted  with  their  own  clay.  Thus  in  frenzy,  fear,  and 
vanity  they  have  carved  the  likeness  of  that  which  was  once 
among  the  gods. 


II 

ON  THE  WAY 

IT  was  already  summer  when,  one  morning,  soon  after 
sunrise,  I  set  out  from  Genoa  for  Tuscany.  The  road 
to  Spezia  along  the  Riviera  di  Levante,  among  the  orange 
groves  and  the  olives,  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea,  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  Europe.  Forgotten,  or  for  the 
most  part  unused,  by  the  traveller  who  is  the  slave  of  the 
railway,  it  has  not  the  reputation  of  its  only  rivals,  the 
Corniche  road  from  Nice  to  Mentone,  the  lovely  highway 
from  Castellamare  to  Sorrento,  or  the  road  between  Vietri 
and  Amalfi,  where  the  strange  fantastic  peaks  lead  you  at  last 
to  the  solitary  and  beautiful  desert  of  Paestum,  where  Greece 
seems  to  await  you  entrenched  in  silence  among  the  wild- 
flowers.  And  there,  too,  on  the  road  to  Tuscany,  after  the 
pleasant  weariness  of  the  way,  which  is  so  much  longer  than 
those  others,  some  fragment  of  antiquity  is  to  be  the  reward 
of  your  journey,  though  nothing  so  fine  as  the  deserted 
holiness  of  Prestum,  only  the  dust  of  the  white  temple  of 
Aphrodite  crowning  the  west  of  the  horn  of  Spezia,  where  it 
rises  splendid  out  of  the  sea  in  the  sun  of  Porto  Venere. 

This  forgotten  way  among  the  olive  gardens  on  the  lower 
slopes  of  the  mountains  over  the  sea,  seems  to  me  more  joyful 
than  any  other  road  in  the  world.  It  leads  to  Italy.  Within 
the  gate  where  all  the  world  is  a  garden,  the  way  climbs 
among  the  olives  and  oranges,  fresh  with  the  fragrance  of  the 
sea,  the  perfume  of  the  blossoms,  to  the  land  of  heart's  desire, 
where  Pisa  lies  in  the  plain  under  the  sorrowful  gesture  of 
the  mountains  like  a  beautiful  mutilated  statue,  where  Amo, 


42    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

parted  from  Tiber,  is  lost  in  the  sea,  dowered  with  the  glory 
of  Florence,  the  tribute  of  the  hills,  the  spoil  of  many 
streams,  the  golden  kiss  of  the  sun ;  while  Tuscany,  splendid 
with  light  and  joy,  stands  neither  for  God  nor  for  His 
enemies,  but  for  man,  to  whom  she  has  given  everything 
really  without  an  afterthought,  the  songs  that  shall  not  be 
forgotten ;  the  pictures  full  of  youth  ;  and  above  all  Beauty, 
that  on  a  night  in  spring  came  to  her  from  Greece  as  it  is 
said  among  the  vineyards,  before  the  vines  had  budded.  For 
even  as  Love  came  to  us  from  heaven,  and  was  born  in  a  stable 
among  the  careful  oxen,  where  a  few  poor  shepherds  found  a 
Mother  with  her  Child,  so  Beauty  was  bom  in  a  vineyard  in 
the  earliest  dawn,  when  some  young  men  came  upon  the  hard 
white  precious  body  of  a  goddess,  and  drew  her  from  the  earth, 
and  began  to  worship  her.  Then  in  their  hearts  Beauty  stirred, 
as  Love  did  in  the  hearts  of  the  shepherds  and  the  kings. 
Nor  was  that  vision,  so  full  of  wisdom  (a  vision  of  birth  or 
resurrection,  was  it  ?)  less  fruitful  than  that  other  so  full  of 
Love,  when  Mary,  coming  in  the  twilight  of  dawn,  saw  the 
angel  and  heard  his  voice,  and  after  weeping  in  the  garden, 
heard  Love  Himself  call  her  by  name.  Well,  if  the  resurrec- 
tion of  God  was  revealed  in  Palestine,  it  was  here  among  the 
Tuscan  hills  that  man  rose  from  the  dead  and  first  saw  the 
beauty  of  the  flowers  and  the  mystery  of  the  hills.  Here,  too, 
is  holy  land  if  you  but  knew  it,  full  of  old  forgotten  gods,  out- 
fashioned  deities  beside  whose  shrines,  though  they  be  hushed, 
you  may  still  hear  the  praise  of  worshippers,  the  tears  of 
desire,  the  laughter  of  the  beloved.  For  the  old  gods  are  not 
dead  though  they  be  forgotten  and  the  voice  of  Jesus  full  of 
sorrowful  promises  has  beguiled  the  world,  still  every  morning 
is  Aphrodite  new  bom  in  the  spume  of  the  sea,  and  in  many 
an  isle  forsaken  you  may  catch  the  notes  of  Apollo's  lyre, 
while  Dionysus,  in  the  mysterious  heat  of  midday  when  the 
husbandman  is  sleeping,  still  steals  among  the  grapes,  and 
Demeter  even  yet  in  the  sunset  seeks  Persephone  among  the 
sheaves  of  com.  If  Jesus  wanders  in  the  ways  of  the  city  to 
comfort  those  who  have  forgotten  the  sun,  in  the  woods  the 


ON  THE  WAY  43 

gods  are  still  upon  their  holy  thrones,  and  their  love  con- 
straineth  us.  Immortal  and  beloved,  how  should  they  pass 
away,  for,  beside  their  secret  places,  of  old  we  have  hushed 
our  voices,  and  children  have  played  with  them  no  less  than 
with  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  The  gods  pass,  only  their  gifts 
remain,  the  sun  and  the  hills  and  the  sea,  but  in  us  they  are 
immortal,  not  one  have  we  suffered  to  creep  away  into 
oblivion. 

Thus  I,  thinking  of  the  way,  came  to  Nervi.  Now  the  way 
from  Genoa  out  of  the  Pisan  gate  to  Nervi  is  none  of  the 
pleasantest,  being  suburb  all  the  way ;  but  those  eight 
chilometri  over  and  done  with,  there  is  nothing  but  delight 
between  you  and  Spezia.  Nervi  itself,  that  surprising  place 
where  beauty  is  all  gathered  into  a  nosegay  of  sea  and  sea- 
shore, will  not  keep  you  long,  for  the  sun  is  high,  and  the  road 
is  calling,  and  the  heat  to  come ;  moreover,  the  beautiful  head- 
land of  Portofino  seems  to  shut  out  all  Italy  from  your  sight. 
Once  there,  you  tell  yourself,  what  may  not  be  seen,  the 
Carrara  hills,  Spezia  perhaps,  even  Pisa  maybe,  miles  and 
miles  away,  where  Arno  winds  through  the  marshes  behind 
the  pineta  to  the  sea.  Now,  whether  or  not  in  your  heart 
of  hearts  you  hope  for  Pisa,  a  white  peak  of  Carrara  you 
certainly  hope  to  see,  and  that  .  .  .  why,  that  is  Tuscany. 
So  you  set  out,  leaving  Genoa  and  her  suburb  at  last  behind 
you,  and,  climbing  among  olive  groves,  orange  gardens,  and 
flaming  oleanders,  with  here  a  magnolia  heavy  with  blossom, 
there  a  pomegranate  mysterious  with  fruit  and  flowers,  after 
another  five  miles  you  come  to  Recco,  a  modest,  sleepy 
village,  where  it  is  good  to  eat  and  rest.  In  the  afternoon 
you  may  very  pleasantly  take  boat  for  Camogli,  that  ancient 
seafaring  place,  full  of  the  debris  of  the  sea,  old  masts  and 
ropes,  here  a  rusty  anchor,  there  a  golden  net,  with  sailors 
lying  asleep  on  the  parapet  of  the  harbour,  and  the  whole 
place  full  of  the  soft  sea  wind,  languorous  and  yet  virile 
withal,  the  shady  narrow  ways,  the  low  archways,  the  crooked 
steps  pleasant  with  the  song  of  the  sea,  the  rhythm  of  the 
waters. 


44    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

In  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  you  leave  Camogli  and  climb 
by  the  byways  to  Ruta,  whence  you  may  see  all  the  Gulf  of 
Genoa,  with  the  proud  city  herself  in  the  lap  of  the  mountains, 
and  there,  yes,  far  away,  you  may  see  the  stainless  peaks  of 
Tuscany,  whiter  than  snow,  shining  in  the  quiet  afternoon  ; 
and  nearer,  but  still  far  away,  the  crest  of  the  horn  of  Spezia, 
with  the  ruined  church  of  Porto  Venere — a  church  or  a  temple, 
is  it  ? — on  the  headland  beside  the  island  of  Palmaria.  Beside 
you  are  the  sea  and  the  hills,  two  everlasting  things,  with  here 
an  old  villa,  beautiful  with  many  autumns,  in  a  grove  of 
cypress,  ilex,  and  myrtle,  those  three  holy  trees  that  mark  death, 
mystery,  and  love ;  while  far  down  on  the  seashore  where  the 
foam  is  whitest,  stands  a  little  ruined  chapel  in  which  the  gulls 
cry  all  day  long.  But  your  heart  turns  ever  toward  Italy 
yonder — towards  the  hills  of  marble.  Will  one  ever  reach 
them,  those  far-away  pure  peaks  immaculate  in  silence,  like 
a  thought  of  God  in  the  loneliness  of  the  mountains  ?  Far 
away  below  you  lies  Rapallo  in  the  crook  of  the  bay  among 
the  oleanders  and  vines.  It  is  there  you  must  sleep,  far 
away  still  from  those  visionary  peaks,  which  yet  will  in  some 
strange  way  give  you  a  sense  of  security,  as  though  a  legion  of 
bright  angels,  ghosts  in  the  pale  night  (for  they  fade  away  in 
the  twilight),  invisible  to  other  men,  were  on  guard  to  keep  you 
from  all  harm.  Somehow  it  is  always  into  a  dreamless  sleep 
one  falls  in  Rapallo,  that  beautiful  and  guarded  place  behind 
Portofino,  where  the  sea  is  like  a  lake,  so  still  it  is,  and  all  the 
flowers  of  the  world  seem  to  have  run  for  shelter.  It  is  as 
though  one  had  seen  the  Holy  City,  and  though  it  was  still 
far  off,  it  was  enough,  one  was  content 

Rapallo  itself,  as  you  find  on  your  first  morning,  is  beautiful, 
chiefly  by  reason  of  its  sea-girt  tower.  The  old  castle  is  a 
prison,  and  the  town  itself,  full  of  modem  hotels,  is  yet  brisk 
with  trade  in  oil  and  lace ;  but  it  is  not  these  things  that  will 
hold  you  there,  but  that  sea-tower  and  the  joy  of  the  woods 
and  gardens.  And  then  there  are  some  surprising  things 
not  far  away.  Portofino,  for  instance,  with  its  great  pine  and 
the  ilex  woods,  its  terraced  walk  and  the  sea,  not  the  lake  of 


ON     IHK    KOAl) 


ON  THE  WAY  45 

Rapallo,  but  the  sea  itself,  full  of  strength  and  wisdom.  Then 
there  is  San  Fruttuoso,  with  its  convent  among  the  palm 
trees  by  the  seashore,  whither  the  Doria  are  still  brought  by 
sea  for  burial.  Here  they  lie,  generation  on  generation,  of  the 
race  which  loved  the  sea ;  almost  cofifined  in  the  deep,  for 
the  waves  break  upon  the  floor  of  the  crypt  that  holds  them. 
They  could  not  lie  more  fitly  than  on  the  shore  of  this 
sea  they  won  and  held  for  Genoa.  San  Fruttuoso  is 
difficult  to  reach  save  by  sea.  In  the  summer  the  path  from 
Portofino  is  pleasant  enough,  but  at  any  other  time  it  is 
almost  impassable.  And  indeed  the  voyage  by  boat  from 
Rapallo  to  Portofino,  and  thence  to  San  Fruttuoso,  should 
be  chosen,  for  the  beauty  of  the  coast,  which,  as  I  think, 
can  nowhere  be  seen  so  well  and  so  easily  as  here.  Then, 
in  returning  to  Portofino,  the  road  along  the  coast  should 
be  followed  through  Cervara,  where  Guido,  the  friend  of 
Petrarch  and  founder  of  the  convent,  lies  buried,  where 
Francis  i,  prisoner  of  Charles  v,  was  wind-bound,  to  S. 
Margherita,  the  sister-town  of  Rapallo,  and  thence  through 
S.  Michele  di  Pagana,  where  you  may  see  a  spoiled  Vandyck, 
to  Rapallo.  Who  may  speak  of  all  the  splendid  valleys  and 
gardens  that  lie  along  this  shore,  for  they  are  gardens  within 
a  garden,  and  where  all  the  world  is  so  fair  it  is  not  of  any 
private  pleasaunce  that  one  thinks,  but  of  the  hills  and  the 
wild-flowers  and  the  sea,  the  garden  of  God. 

And  if  the  road,  so  far,  from  Genoa  beggars  description,  so 
that  I  have  thought  to  leave  it  almost  without  a  word,  what 
can  I  hope  to  say  of  the  way  from  Rapallo  to  Chiavari  ? 
Starting  early,  perhaps  in  the  company  of  a  peasant  who  is 
returning  to  his  farm  among  the  olives,  you  climb,  in  the 
genial  heat,  among  the  lower  slopes  between  the  great  hills 
and  the  sea,  along  terraces  of  olives,  through  a  whole  long 
day  of  sunshine,  with  the  song  of  the  cicale  ever  in  your  ears, 
the  mysterious  long-drawn-out  melody  of  the  rispetti  of  the 
peasant  girls  reaching  you  ever.  And  then  from  the  stillness 
among  the  olives,  where  the  shade  is  delicate  and  fragile,  of 
silver  and  gold,  and  the  streams  creep  softly  down  to  the  sea, 


46    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  evening  will  come  as  you  pass  along  the  winding  ways 
of  Chiavari,  for  in  the  golden  weather  one  is  minded  to  go 
softly.  Then  in  the  twilight  pursuing  your  way  you  follow 
the  beautiful  road  to  Sestri-Levante,  where  again  you  are 
within  sound  of  the  sea  that  breaks  on  the  one  side  on  a  rocky 
and  lofty  shore,  and  on  the  other  creeps  softly  into  a  flat 
beach,  the  town  itself  rising  on  the  promontory  between 
these  two  bays.  There,  under  the  headland  among  the 
woods,  you  may  find  a  chapel  of  black  and  white  marble,  surely 
the  haunt  of  Stella  Maris,  who  has  usurped  the  place  of 
Aphrodite. 

Many  days  might  be  spent  among  the  woods  of  Sestri,  but 
the  road  calls  from  the  mountains,  and  it  is  ever  of  Tuscany 
that  you  think  as  you  set  out  at  last,  leaving  the  sea  behind 
you  for  the  hills,  climbing  into  the  Passo  di  Bracco,  that,  as 
it  seems,  alone  divides  you  from  the  land  you  seek.  It  is  a 
far  journey  from  Sestri  to  Spezia,  but  with  a  good  horse,  in 
spite  of  the  hill,  you  may  cover  it  in  a  single  long  day  from 
sunrise  to  sunset.  The  climb  begins  almost  at  once,  and 
continues  really  for  some  eighteen  miles,  till  Baracchino  and 
the  Osteria  Baracca  are  reached,  in  a  desolate  region  of 
mountains  that  stretch  away  for  ever,  billow  on  billow.  Then 
you  descend  only  to  mount  again  through  the  woods,  till 
evening  finds  you  at  La  Foce,  the  last  height  before  Spezia; 
and  suddenly  at  a  turning  of  the  way  the  sunset  flames 
before  you,  staining  all  the  sea  with  colour,  and  there  lies 
Tuscany,  those  fragile,  stainless  peaks  of  Carrara  faintly 
glowing  in  the  evening  sun  purple  and  blue  and  gold,  with 
here  a  flush  as  of  dawn,  there  the  heart  of  the  sunset.  And 
all  before  you  lies  the  sea,  with  Spezia  and  the  great  ships  in 
its  arms ;  while  yonder,  like  a  jewel  on  the  cusp  of  a  horn, 
Porto  Venere  shines ;  and  farther  still,  Lerici  in  the  shadow 
of  the  hills  washed  by  the  sea,  stained  by  the  blood  of  the 
sunset,  its  great  castle  seeming  like  some  splendid  ship  in  the 
midst  of  the  waters.  From  the  bleak  height  of  La  Foce, 
whence  all  the  woods  seem  to  have  run  down  to  the  shore, 
slowly  one  by  one  the  lights  of  the  city  appear   like  great 


ON  THE  WAY  47 

golden  night  flowers ;  soon  they  are  answered  from  the  bay, 
where  the  ships  lie  solemnly,  sleepily  at  anchor,  and  at  last  the 
great  light  of  the  Pharos  throws  its  warning  over  sea  and 
seashore ;  and  gathering  in  the  distance  on  the  far  horizon,  the 
night,  splendid  with  blue  and  gold,  overwhelms  the  world, 
bringing  coolness  and  as  it  were  a  sort  of  reconciliation.  So 
it  is  quite  dark  when,  weary,  at  last  you  find  yourself  in  Spezia 
at  the  foot  of  the  Tuscan  hills. 

Spezia  is  a  modern  city  which  has  obliterated  the  more 
ancient  fortresses,  whose  ruins  still  guard  the  two  promontories 
of  her  gulf.  The  chief  naval  station  in  Italy,  she  has  crowned 
all  the  heights  and  islands  with  forts,  and  in  many  a  little 
creek  hidden  away,  you  continually  come  upon  warships, 
naval  schools,  hospitals,  and  such,  while  in  her  streets  the 
sailors  and  soldiers  mingle  together,  giving  the  town  a  curiously 
modern  character,  for  indeed  there  is  little  else  to  call  your 
attention.  The  beautiful  bay  which  lies  between  Porto  Venere 
and  Lerici  behind  the  line  of  islands,  that  are  really  fortifica- 
tions, is,  in  spite  of  every  violation,  a  spectacle  of  extraordinary 
beauty,  and  in  the  old  days — not  so  long  ago,  after  all — when 
the  woods  came  down  to  the  sea,  and  Spezia  was  a  tiny 
village,  less  even  than  Lerici  is  to-day,  it  must  have  been  one 
of  the  loveliest  and  quietest  places  in  the  world.  Shut  out 
from  Italy  by  the  range  of  hills  that  runs  in  a  semicircle  from 
horn  to  horn  of  her  bay,  in  those  days  there  were  just  sun  and 
woods  and  sea,  with  a  few  half  pagan  peasants  and  fishermen  to 
break  the  immense  silence.  And,  as  it  seems  to  me,  by  reason 
of  some  magic  which  still  haunts  this  mysterious  seashore,  it  is 
ever  that  world  half  pagan  that  you  seek,  leaving  Spezia  very 
gladly  every  morning  for  San  Terenzo  and  Lerici  for  Porto 
Venere  and  the  enchanted  coast. 

Leaving  Spezia  very  early  in  the  morning,  there  is  nothing 
more  delightful  than  the  voyage  across  the  land-locked  bay, 
past  the  beautiful  headlands  and  secret  coves,  to  San  Terenzo 
and  Lerici.  If  you  leave  the  steamer  at  San  Terenzo,  you 
may  walk  along  a  sort  of  seawall,  built  out  of  the  cliff  and 
the  boulders  of  the  shore,  round  more  than  one   little  pro- 


48    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

montory,  to  Lerici,  whose  castle  seems  to  guard  the  Tuscan 
sea.  Walking  thus  along  the  shore,  you  pass  the  Villa  Magni, 
Shelley's  house,  standing,  not  as  it  used  to  do,  up  out  of  the 
sea,  for  the  road  has  been  built  really  in  the  waves ;  but  in 
many  ways  the  same  still,  for  instance  with  the  broad  balcony 
on  the  first  storey,  which  pleased  Shelley  so  much  ;  and  though 
a  second  storey  has  been  added  since,  and  even  the  name  of 
the  house  changed,  a  piece  of  vandalism  common  enough  in 
Italy  to-day,  where,  since  they  do  not  even  spare  their  own 
traditional  and  ancient  landmarks,  it  would  be  folly  to  expect 
them  to  preserve  ours,  still  you  may  visit  the  rooms  in  which 
he  lived  with  Mary  and  the  Williamses,  and  where  he  told 
Claire  of  the  death  of  Allegra. 

The  house  stands  facing  the  sea  in  the  deepest  part  of  the 
bay,  nearer  to  San  Terenzo  than  to  Lerici.  Both  Trelawney 
and  Williams  had  been  searching  all  the  spring  for  a  summer 
villa  for  the  Shelleys,  who,  a  little  weary  perhaps  of  Byron's 
world,  had  determined  to  leave  Pisa  and  to  spend  the  summer 
on  the  Gulf  of  Spezia.  Byron  was  about  to  establish  himself 
just  beyond  Livomo,  on  the  slopes  of  Montenero,  in  a  huge 
and  rambling  old  villa  with  eighteenth  century  frescoes  on 
the  walls,  and  a  tangled  park  and  garden  running  down  to 
the  dusty  Livomo  highway.  The  place  to-day  is  a  little 
dilapidated,  and  its  statues  broken,  but  in  the  summer 
months  it  becomes  the  paradise  of  a  school  of  girls,  a  fact 
which  I  think  might  have  pleased  Byron. 

However,  the  Shelleys  were  thinking  of  no  such  faded 
splendour  as  Villa  Dupoy  for  their  summer  retreat  "  Shelley 
had  no  pride  or  vanity  to  provide  for,"  says  Trelawney,  "  yet 
we  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  finding  any  house  in  which 
the  humblest  civilised  family  could  exist. 

"  On  the  shores  of  this  superb  bay,  only  surpassed  in  its 
natural  beauty  and  capability  by  that  of  Naples,  so  effectually 
had  tyranny  paralysed  the  energies  and  enterprise  of  man, 
that  the  only  indication  of  human  habitation  was  a  few  most 
miserable  fishing  villages  scattered  along  the  margin  of  the 
bay.     Near  its  centre,  between  the  villages  of  San  Terenzo 


ON  THE  WAY  49 

and  Lerici,  we  came  upon  a  lonely  and  abandoned  building 
called  the  Villa  Magni,  though  it  looked  more  like  a  boat 
or  bathing  house  than  a  place  to  live  in.  It  consisted  of  a 
terrace  or  ground-floor  unpaved,  and  used  for  storing  boat- 
gear  and  fishing-tackle,  and  of  a  single  storey  over  it,  divided 
into  a  hall  or  saloon  and  four  small  rooms  which  had  once 
been  white-washed ;  there  was  one  chimney  for  cooking. 
This  place  we  thought  the  Shelleys  might  put  up  with  for 
the  summer.  The  only  good  thing  about  it  was  a  verandah 
facing  the  sea,  and  almost  over  it.  So  we  sought  the  owner 
and  made  arrangements,  dependent  on  Shelley's  approval,  for 
taking  it  for  six  months." 

Shelley  at  once  decided  to  accept  the  offer  of  this  house, 
though  it  was  unfurnished.  Mary  and  Claire  presently  set 
out  for  Spezia,  Shelley  remaining  in  Pisa  to  manage  the 
removal  of  the  furniture.  He  reached  Lerici  on  28th  April, 
writing,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  to  Mary  in  Spezia. 

April  28,  1822. 

"Dearest  Mary, — I  am  this  moment  arrived  at  Lerici, 
where  I  am  necessarily  detained  waiting  the  furniture,  which 
left  Pisa  last  night  at  midnight ;  and  as  the  sea  has  been  calm 
and  the  wind  fair,  may  expect  them  every  moment.  .  .  . 
Now  to  business — Is  the  Magni  House  taken?  if  not  pray 
occupy  yourself  instantly  in  finishing  the  affair,  even  if  you 
are  obliged  to  go  to  Sarzana,  and  send  a  messenger  to  me 
to  tell  me  of  your  success.  I,  of  course,  cannot  leave  Lerici, 
to  which  place  the  boats  (for  we  were  obliged  to  take  two) 
are  directed.  But  you  can  come  over  in  the  same  boat  that 
brings  this  letter,  and  return  in  the  evening. 

"  I  ought  to  say  that  I  do  not  think  there  is  accommodation 
for  you  all  at  this  inn ;  and  that  even  if  there  were,  you 
would  be  better  off"  at  Spezia;  but  if  the  Magni  House  is 
taken,  then  there  is  no  possible  reason  why  you  should  not 
take  a  row  over  in  the  boat  that  will  bring  this,  but  don't 
keep  the  men  long.  I  am  anxious  to  hear  from  you  on 
every  account. — Ever  yours,  S." 

4 


50    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Shelley's  fears  as  to  the  accommodation  of  Lerici  were  by 
no  means  without  foundation.  Within  the  last  two  years  a 
decent  inn  has  been  open  there  in  the  summer,  but  before 
that  the  primitive  and  not  very  clean  hostelry  in  which,  as  I 
suppose,  Shelley  lodged,  was  all  that  awaited  the  traveller.^ 
It  was  not  for  long,  however,  that  Shelley  was  left  in  doubt 
about  the  house.  Villa  Magni  became  his,  and,  after  much 
trouble  with  the  furniture,  for  the  officials  put  the  customs 
duty  at  ;;^3oo  sterling,  they  were  allowed  to  bring  it 
ashore,  the  harbour-master  agreeing  to  consider  Villa  Magni 
"as  a  sort  of  depot,  until  further  leave  came  from  the 
Genoese  Government." 

It  was  here  that,  very  soon  after  they  had  taken  possession 
of  the  house,  Claire  learned  from  Shelley's  lips  of  the  death 
of  her  child,  and  on  2 1  st  May  set  out  for  Florence.  A  few 
evenings  later,  Shelley,  walking  with  Williams  on  the  terrace, 
and  observing  the  effect  of  the  moonshine  on  the  water, 
grasped  Williams,  as  he  says,  "  violently  by  the  arm  and  stared 
steadfastly  on  the  white  surf  that  broke  upon  the  beach  at 
our  feet.  Observing  him  sensibly  affected,  I  demanded  of 
him  if  he  were  in  pain  ;  but  he  only  answered  by  saying, 
'  There  it  is  again — there  ! '  He  recovered  after  some  time, 
and  declared  that  he  saw,  as  plainly  as  he  then  saw  me,  a 
naked  child  (Allegra)  rise  from  the  sea  and  clap  its  hands 
as  in  joy,  smiling  at  him."  Was  this  a  premonition  of  his 
own  death,  a  hint,  as  it  were,  that  in  such  a  place  one  like 
Shelley  might  well  hope  for  from  the  gods  ?  Certainly  that 
shore  was  pagan  enough.  Sometimes  on  moonlight  nights, 
in  the  hot  weather,  the  half  savage  natives  of  San  Terenzo 
would  dance  among  the  waves,  singing  in  chorus ;  while  Mrs. 
Shelley  tells  us  that  the  beauty  of  the  woods  made  her  "  weep 
and  shudder " ;  so  strong  and  vehement  was  her  dread  that 
she  preferred  to  go  out  in  the  boat  which  she  feared,  rather 
than  to  walk  among  the  paths  and  alleys  of  the  trees  hung 
with  vines,  or  in  the  mysterious  silence  of  the  olives. 

'  For  the  identity  of  this  inn  see  Leigh  Hunt,  Autobiography.  Constable, 
1903,  vol.  ii.  p.  123. 


ON  THE  WAY  51 

Thus  began  that  happy  last  summer  of  Shelley's  life.  Day 
by  day,  he,  with  Trelawney  and  Williams,  watched  for  that 
fatal  plaything,  the  little  boat  Ariel,  which  Trelawney  had 
drawn  in  her  actual  dimensions  for  him  on  the  sands  of 
Arno,  while  he,  with  a  map  of  the  Mediterranean  spread 
before  him,  sitting  in  this  imaginary  ship,  had  already  made 
wonderful  voyages.  And  one  day  as  he  paced  the  terrace 
with  Williams,  they  saw  her  round  the  headland  of  Porto 
Venere.  Twenty-eight  feet  long  by  eight  she  was :  built 
in  Genoa  from  an  English  model  that  Williams,  who  had 
been  a  sailor,  had  brought  with  him.  Without  a  deck, 
schooner-rigged,  it  took,  says  Trelawney,  "  two  tons  of  iron 
ballast  to  bring  her  down  to  her  bearings,  and  then  she 
was  very  crank  in  a  breeze,  though  not  deficient  in  beam." 
Truly  Shelley  was  no  seaman.  "  Yqu  will  do  no  good  with 
Shelley,"  Trelawney  told  Williams,  "  until  you  heave  his  books 
and  papers  overboard,  shear  the  wisps  of  hair  that  hang 
over  his  eyes,  and  plunge  his  arms  up  to  the  elbows  in  a 
tar  bucket."  But  he  said,  "  I  can  read  and  steer  at  the 
same  time."  Read  and  steer !  But  indeed  it  was  on  this 
very  bay,  and  almost  certainly  in  the  Ariel,  that  he  wrote 
those  perfect  lines :  "  She  left  me  at  the  silent  time." 

It  was  here  too,  in  Lerici,  that  Shelley  wrote  "  The  Triumph 
of  Life,"  that  splendid  fragment  in  terza  rima,  which  is  like 
a  pageant  suddenly  broken  by  the  advent  of  Death :  that 
ends  with  the  immortal  question — 

"Then,  what  is  life?   I  cried," 

which  was  for  ever  to  remain  unanswered,  for  he  had  gone,  as 
he  said,  "  to  solve  the  great  mystery."  Well,  the  story  is  an 
old  one,  I  shall  not  tell  it  again  ;  only  here  in  the  bay  of 
Lerici,  with  his  words  in  my  ears,  his  house  before  me,  and 
the  very  terrace  where  he  worked,  the  ghost  of  that  sorrowful 
and  splendid  spirit  seems  to  wander  even  yet.  What  was  it 
that  haunted  this  shore,  full  of  foreboding,  prophesying  death  ? 
It  was  to  meet  Leigh  Hunt  that  Shelley  set  out  on  1st  July 
with  Williams  in  the  Ariel  for  Leghorn.     For  weeks  the  sky 


52    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

had  been  cloudless,  full  of  the  mysterious  light,  which  is,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  splendid 
thing  in  the  world.  In  all  the  churches  and  by  the  roadsides 
they  were  praying  for  rain.  Shelley  had  been  in  Pisa  with 
Hunt  showing  him  that  most  lovely  of  all  cathedrals,  and, 
listening  to  the  organ  there,  he  had  been  led  to  agree  that 
a  truly  divine  religion  might  even  yet  be  established  if  Love 
were  really  made  the  principle  of  it  instead  of  Faith.  On  the 
afternoon  following  that  serene  day  at  Pisa,  he  set  sail  for 
Lerici  from  Leghorn  with  Williams  and  the  boy  Charles 
Vivian.  Trelawney  was  on  the  Bolivar^  Byron's  yacht,  at  the 
time,  and  saw  them  start.  His  Genoese  mate,  watching  too, 
turned  to  him  and  said,  "They  should  have  sailed  this 
morning  at  three  or  four  instead  of  now ;  they  are  standing 
too  much  inshore;  the  current  will  set  them  there."  Tre- 
lawney answered,  "They  will  soon  have  the  land-breeze." 
•'  Maybe,"  continued  the  mate,  "  she  will  soon  have  too  much 
breeze ;  that  gaff  topsail  is  foolish  in  a  boat  with  no  deck  and 
no  sailor  on  board."  Then,  pointing  to  the  south-west, — 
"  Look  at  those  black  lines  and  the  dirty  rags  hanging  on 
them  out  of  the  sky — they  are  a  warning  ;  look  at  the  smoke 
on  the  water ;  the  devil  is  brewing  mischief."  Then  the  mist 
which  had  hung  all  day  in  the  offing  swallowed  the  Ariel  for 
ever. 

It  was  not  until  many  days  after  this,  Trelawney  tells 
us,  "  that  my  worst  fears  were  confirmed.  Two  bodies  were 
found  on  the  shore — one  near  Viareggio,  which  I  went  and 
examined.  The  face  and  hands  and  parts  of  the  body  not 
protected  by  the  dress  were  fleshless.  The  tall,  slight  figure, 
the  jacket,  the  volume  of  ^schylus  in  one  pocket,  and  Keats' 
poems  ^  in  the  other,  doubled  back,  as  if  the  reader,  in  the 
act  of  reading,  had  hastily  thrust  it  away,  were  all  too  familiar 
to  me  to  leave  a  doubt  in  my  mind  that  this  mutilated  corpse 
was  any  other  than  Shelley's." 

A  certain  light  has  been  thro>^Ti  on  the  manner  in  which 
Shelley  and  his  friend  met  their  death  in  a  letter  which  Mr. 
'  The  Keats  was  doubled  open  at  the  "  Lamia." 


ON  THE  WAY  53 

Eyre  wrote  to  the  Times  in  1875.  Trelawney  had  always 
believed  that  the  Livomo  sailors  knew  more  than  they 
cared  to  tell  of  that  tragedy.  For  one  thing,  he  had  seen  an 
English  oar  in  one  of  their  boats  just  after  the  storm ;  for 
another,  the  laws  were  such  in  Tuscany,  that  had  a  fishing- 
boat  gone  to  the  rescue  of  the  Ariel  and  brought  off  the  poet 
and  his  companions,  she  would  with  her  crew  have  been  sent 
into  quarantine  for  fear  of  cholera.  It  is  not,  however,  to  the 
Duchy  of  Tuscany  that  Shelley  owes  his  death,  but  to  the 
cupidity  of  the  Tuscan  sailors,  one  of  them  having  confessed 
to  the  crime  of  running  down  the  boat,  seeing  her  in  danger, 
in  the  hope  of  finding  gold  on  "  the  milord  Inglese."  There 
seems  but  little  reason  for  doubting  this  story,  which  Sir 
Vincent  Eyre  communicated  to  the  Times  in  1875  :  Trelawney 
eagerly  accepts  it,  and  though  Dr.  Garnett  and  Professor 
Dowden  politely  forbear  to  accuse  the  Italians,  such  crimes 
appear  to  have  been  sufficiently  common  in  those  days  to 
confirm  us,  however  reluctantly,  in  this  explanation.  Thus 
died  perhaps  the  greatest  lyric  poet  that  even  England  had 
ever  borne,  an  exile,  and  yet  not  an  exile,  for  he  died  in 
Italy,  the  fatherland  of  us  all.  Ah  !  "  'tis  Death  is  dead,  not 
he,"  for  in  the  west  wind  you  may  hear  his  song,  and  in  the 
tender  night  his  rare  mysterious  music ;  when  the  skylark 
sings  it  is  as  it  were  his  melody,  and  in  the  clouds  you  may 
find  something  of  the  refreshment  of  his  spirit. 

**  Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

*  Trelawney  Records.     Pickering,  1878,  pp.  197-200,  accepts  this  story, 
as  clearing  up  what  for  fifty  years  had  been  a  mystery  to  him. 


Ill 

PORTO   VENERE 

IT  is  perhaps  a  more  joyful  day  that  may  be  spent  at  Porto 
Venere,  the  little  harbour  on  the  northern  shores  of  the  gulf. 
Starting  early  you  come,  still  before  the  sea  is  altogether  subject 
to  the  sun,  to  a  little  bay  of  blue  clear  still  water  flanked  by 
gardens  of  vines,  of  agaves  and  olives.  Here,  in  silence  save 
for  the  lapping  of  the  water,  the  early  song  of  the  cicale,  the 
far-away  notes  of  a  reed  blown  by  a  boy  in  the  shadow  by 
the  sea,  you  land,  and,  following  the  path  by  the  hillside,  come 
suddenly  on  the  little  port  with  its  few  fishing-boats  and 
litter  of  ropes  and  nets,  above  which  rises  the  little  town, 
house  piled  on  house,  from  the  ruined  church  rising  high, 
sheer  out  of  the  sea  to  the  church  of  marble  that  crowns  the 
hill.  Before  you  stands  the  gate  of  Porto  Venere,  a  little 
Eastern  in  its  dilapidation,  its  colour  of  faded  gold,  its  tower, 
and  broken  battlement.  Passing  under  the  ancient  arch  past 
a  shrine  of  Madonna,  you  enter  the  long  shadowy  street, 
where  red  and  green  vegetables  and  fruits,  purple  grapes,  and 
honey-coloured  nespoli  and  yellow  oranges  are  piled  in  the 
cool  doorways,  and  the  old  women  sit  knitting  behind  their 
stalls.  Climbing  thus  between  the  houses  under  that  vivid 
strip  of  soft  blue  sky,  the  dazzling  rosy  beauty  of  the  ruined 
ramparts  suddenly  bursts  upon  you,  and  beyond  and  above 
them  the  golden  ruined  church,  and  farther  still,  the  glistening 
shining  splendour  of  the  sea  and  the  sun  that  has  suddenly 
blotted  out  the  soft  sky.  A  flight  of  broken  steps  leads  to 
a  ruined  wall,  along  which  you  pass  to  the  old  church,  or 
temple  is  it  ?  you  ask  yourself,  so  fair  it  looks,  and  without  the 


PORTO  VENERE  55 

humility  of  a  Christian  building.  To  your  right,  across  a 
tossing  strip  of  blue  water,  full  of  green  and  gold,  rises  the 
island  of  Palmaria,  and  beyond  that  two  other  smaller  islands, 
Tisso  and  Tissetto,  while  to  your  left  lies  the  whole  splendid 
coast  shouting  with  waves,  laughing  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
wind  of  early  morning,  and  all  before  you  spreads  the  sea. 
As  I  stood  leaning  on  the  ruined  wall  looking  on  all  this 
miracle  of  joy,  a  little  child,  who  had  hidden  among  the 
wind-blown  cornflowers  and  golden  broom  on  the  slope  of 
the  cliffs,  slowly  crept  towards  me  with  many  hesitations  and 
shy  peerings ;  then,  no  longer  afraid,  almost  naked  as  he  was, 
he  ran  to  me  and  took  my  hand. 

"  Will  the  Signore  see  the  church  ?  "  said  he,  pulling  me  that 
way. 

The  Signore  was  willing.  Thus  it  was,  hand  in  hand  with 
Eros,  that  I  mounted  the  broken  steps  of  the  tower  of  Venus, 
his  mother. 

How  may  I  describe  the  wonder  of  that  place  ?  For  at 
last,  he  before,  I  following,  though  he  still  held  my  hand,  we 
came  out  of  the  stairway  on  to  a  platform  on  the  top  of  the 
tower  surrounded  by  a  broken  battlement.  It  was  as  though 
I  had  suddenly  entered  the  last  hiding-place  of  Aphrodite 
herself.  On  the  floor  sat  an  old  and  lame  man  sharpening 
a  scythe,  and  beside  him  a  little  child  lay  among  the  broken 
corn  that  was  strewn  over  the  whole  platform.  Where  the 
battlements  had  once  frowned,  now  stood  sheaves  of  smiling 
corn,  golden  and  nodding  in  the  wind  and  the  sun.  Suddenly 
the  lad  who  had  led  me  hither  seized  the  flail  and  began  to 
beat  the  corn  and  stalks  strewn  over  the  floor,  while  the  old 
man,  quavering  a  little,  sang  a  long-drawn-out  gay  melody,  and 
the  little  girl  beat  her  tiny  hand  in  time  to  the  work  and  the 
music.  Then,  unheard,  into  this  miracle  came  a  young  woman, 
— ah,  was  it  not  Persephone, — slim  as  an  osier  in  the  shadow, 
walking  like  a  bright  peacock  straight  above  herself,  climbing 
the  steps,  and  her  hands  were  on  her  hips  and  on  her 
black  head  was  a  sheaf  of  corn.  Then  she  breathed  deep, 
gazed  over  the  blue  sea,  and  set  her  burden  down  with  its 


56    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

fellows  on  the  parapet,  smiling  and  beating  her  hands  at  the 
little  girl. 

Porto  Venere  rises  out  of  the  sea  like  Tintagel — but  a 
classic  sea,  a  sea  covered  with  broken  blossoms.  It  was 
evening  when  I  returned  again  to  the  Temple  of  Venus. 
The  moon  was  like  a  sickle  of  silver,  far  away  the  waves 
fawned  along  the  shore  as  though  to  call  the  nymphs  from 
the  woods ;  the  sun  was  set ;  out  of  the  east  night  was  coming. 
In  the  great  caves,  full  of  coolness  and  mystery,  the  Tritons 
seemed  to  be  playing  with  sea  monsters,  while  from  far  away 
I  thought  I  heard  the  lamentable  voice  of  Ariadne  weeping 
for  Theseus.  Ah  no,  they  are  not  dead,  the  beautiful,  fair 
gods.  Here,  in  the  temple  of  Aphrodite,  on  the  threshold  of 
Italy,  I  will  lift  up  my  heart.  Though  the  songs  we  made  are 
dead  and  the  dances  forgotten,  though  the  statues  be  broken, 
the  temples  destroyed,  still  in  my  heart  there  is  a  song  and 
in  my  blood  a  murmur  as  of  dancing,  and  I  will  carve  new 
statues  and  rebuild  the  temples  every  day.  For  I  have  loved 
you,  O  gods,  in  the  forests  and  in  the  mountains  and  by  the 
seashore.  I,  too,  am  fashioned  out  of  the  red  earth,  and  all 
the  sea  is  in  my  heart,  and  my  lover  is  the  wind.  As  the 
rivers  sing  of  the  sea,  so  will  I  sing  till  I  find  you.  As  the 
mountains  wait  for  the  sun,  so  will  I  wait  in  the  night  of  the 
city. 

For  my  joy,  and  my  lord  the  sun,  I  give  you  thanks, 
that  he  is  splendid  and  strong  and  beautiful  beyond  beauty. 
For  the  sea  and  all  mysterious  things  I  give  you  thanks, 
that  I  have  understood  and  am  reconciled  with  them.  For 
the  earth  when  the  sun  is  set,  for  the  earth  when  the  sun  is 
risen,  for  the  valleys  and  the  hills,  for  the  flowers  and  the 
trees,  I  give  you  thanks,  that  I  am  one  with  them  always  and 
out  of  them  was  I  made.  For  the  wind  of  morning,  for  the 
wind  of  evening,  for  the  tender  night,  for  the  growing  day, 
take,  then,  my  thanks,  O  Gods,  for  the  cypress,  for  the  ilex, 
for  the  olive  on  the  road  to  Italy  in  the  sunset  and  the 
summer. 


IV 
SARZANA   AND   LUNA 

IT  was  very  early  in  the  morning  when  I  came  into  Tuscany. 
Leaving  Spezia  overnight,  I  had  slept  at  Lerici,  and, 
waking  in  the  earliest  still  dawn,  I  had  set  out  over  the  hills, 
hoping  to  cross  the  Macra  before  breakfast 

In  this  tremulous  and  joyful  hour,  full  of  the  profound 
gravity  of  youth  hesitating  on  the  threshold  of  life,  the  day 
rose  out  of  the  sea ;  so,  a  lily  opening  in  a  garden  while  we 
sleep  transfigures  it  with  its  joy. 

As  I  climbed  the  winding  hill  among  the  olives,  while  still 
a  cool  twilight  hung  about  the  streets  of  Lerici,  the  sun  stood 
up  over  the  sea,  awakening  it  to  the  whole  long  day  of  love  to 
come.  Far  away  in  the  early  light,  over  a  sea  mysterious 
of  blue  and  silver  and  full  of  ecstasy,  the  coast  curved  with 
infinite  beauty  into  the  golden  crest  of  Porto  Venere.  Spezia, 
like  a  broken  flower,  seemed  deserted  on  the  seashore,  and 
Lerici  itself,  far  below  me,  waking  at  morning,  watched  the 
sleeping  ships,  the  deep  breathing  of  the  sea,  the  shy  and  yet 
proud  gesture  of  the  day. 

Then  as  I  crossed  the  ridge  of  the  hill  and  began  to  follow 
the  road  downward  towards  Tuscany  between  the  still  olives, 
where  as  yet  the  world  had  not  seen  the  sun,  suddenly  all 
that  beautiful  world,  about  to  be  so  splendid,  was  hidden 
from  me,  and  instead  I  saw  the  delta  of  a  great  river,  the 
uplifted  peaks  of  the  marble  mountains,  and  there  was 
Tuscany. 

Past  Areola,  that  triumphal  arch  of  the  middle  age,  built  on 
high  like  a  city  on  an  aqueduct,  I  went  into  the  plain ;  then 

57 


58    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

far  away  in  the  growing  day  I  saw  the  ancient  strongholds  of 

the  hills,  the  fortresses  of  the  Malaspina,  the  castles  of  the 

Lunigiana,  the  eyries  of  the  eagles  of  old  time.     There  they 

lay  before  me  on  the  hills  like  le  grandi  ombre  of  which  Dante 

speaks,  Castelnuovo  di  Magra,  Fosdinovo  of  the  Malaspina, 

Niccola  over  the  woods.     Then  at  a  turning  of  the  way  at  the 

foot  of  the  hills  I  had  traversed,  under  that  long  and  lofty 

bridge   that  has  known  so  well   the   hasty  footstep  of  the 

fugitive,  flowed  Magra. 

.  .  .  Macra,  che,  per  cammin  corto 
Lo  genovese  parte  dal  Toscano. 

Thus  with  Dante's  verses  in  my  mouth  I  came  into 
Tuscany. 

Now  the  way  from  Macra  to  Sarzana  lies  straight  across  that 
great  delta  which  hides  behind  the  eastern  horn  of  the  Gulf 
of  Spezia.  At  the  Macra  bridge  you  meet  the  old  road  from 
Genoa  to  Pisa,  and  entering  Tuscany  thus,  Sarzana  is  the  first 
Tuscan  city  you  will  see.  Luna  Nova  the  Romans  called  the 
place,  for  it  was  built  to  replace  the  older  city  close  to  the  sea, 
the  ruins  of  which  you  may  still  see  beside  the  road  on  the 
way  southward,  but  of  Roman  days  there  is  nothing  left  in 
the  new  city. 

It  was  a  fortress  of  Castruccio  Castracani,  the  birthplace  of 
a  great  Pope.  Of  Castruccio,  that  intolerant  great  man,  I  shall 
speak  later,  in  Lucca,  for  that  was  the  rose  in  his  shield. 
Here  I  wish  only  to  remind  the  reader  who  wanders  among 
the  ruins  of  his  great  castle,  that  Castracani  took  Sarzana 
by  force  and  held  it  against  any ;  and  perhaps  to  recall  the 
words  of  Machiavelli,  where  he  tells  us  that  the  capture  of 
Sarzana  was  a  feat  of  daring  done  to  impress  the  Lucchesi 
with  the  splendour  of  their  liberated  tyrant.  For  when  the 
citizens  had  freed  him  from  the  prison  of  Uguccione  della 
Faggiuola,  who  had  seized  the  government  of  Lucca,  Castruccio, 
finding  himself  accompanied  by  a  great  number  of  his  friends, 
which  encouraged  him,  and  by  the  whole  body  of  the 
people,  which  flattered  his  ambition,  caused  himself  to  be 
chosen  Captain-General  of  all  their  forces  for  a  twelvemonth  ; 


SARZANA  AND  LUNA  59 

and,  resolving  to  perform  some  eminent  action  that  might 
justify  their  choice,  he  undertook  the  reduction  of  several 
places  which  had  revolted  following  the  example  of  Uguccione. 
Having  for  this  purpose  entered  into  strict  alliance  with  the  city 
of  Pisa,  she  sent  him  supplies,  and  he  marched  with  them  to 
besiege  Sarzana;  but  the  place  being  very  strong,  before  he 
could  carry  it,  he  was  obliged  to  build  a  fortress  as  near  it  as 
he  could.  This  new  fort  in  two  months'  time  rendered  him 
master  of  the  whole  country,  and  is  the  same  fort  that  at 
this  day  is  called  Sarzanella,  repaired  since  and  much 
enlarged  by  the  Florentines.  Supported  by  the  credit  of  so 
glorious  an  exploit,  he  reduced  Massa,  Carrara,  and  Lavenza 
very  easily :  he  seized  likewise  upon  the  whole  country  of 
Lunigiana  ...  so  that,  full  of  glory,  he  returned  to  Lucca, 
where  the  people  thronged  to  meet  him,  and  received  him 
with  all  possible  demonstrations  of  joy. 

It  is,  however,  rather  as  the  home  of  Nicholas  v,  I  think, 
that  Sarzana  appeals  to  us  to-day,  than  as  the  stronghold  of 
Castruccio.  The  tyrant  held  so  many  places,  as  we  shall 
see,  his  prowess  is  everywhere,  but  Tommaso  Parentucelli 
is  like  to  be  forgotten,  for  his  glory  is  not  written  in  sword- 
cuts  or  in  any  violated  city,  but  in  the  forgotten  pages  of  the 
humanists,  the  beautiful  life  of  Vespasiano  di  Bisticci.  And 
was  not  Nicholas  v  the  first  of  the  Renaissance  Popes, 
the  librarian  of  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  the  tutor  of  the  sons  of 
Rinaldo  degli  Albizzi  and  of  Palla  Strozzi?  Certainly  his 
great  glory  was  the  care  he  had  of  learning  and  the  arts : 
he  made  Rome  once  more  the  capital  of  the  world,  he  began 
the  Vatican,  and  the  basilica  of  S.  Pietro,  yet  he  was  not 
content  till  he  should  have  transformed  the  whole  city  into 
order  and  beauty.  In  him  the  enthusiasm  and  impulse  of 
the  Renaissance  are  simple  and  full  of  freshness.  Finding 
Rome  still  the  city  of  the  Emperors  and  their  superstition,  he 
made  it  the  city  of  man.  He  was  the  friend  of  Alberti,  the 
patron  of  all  men  of  learning  and  poets.  "  Greece  has  not  fallen," 
said  Filelfo,  in  remembering  him,  •'  but  seems  to  have 
migrated  to  Italy,  which  of  old  was  called  Magna  Grsecia." 


6o    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Yet  Tommaso  Parentucelli  ^  was  sprung  of  poor  parents, 
and  even  though  they  may  have  been  nobili  as  Manetti  tells 
us,  De  nobili  Parentucellorum  progenie^  that  certainly  was 
of  but  little  assistance  to  him  in  his  youth. 

"  Maestro  Tomaso  da  Serezana,"  says  Vespasiano  the 
serene  bookseller  of  Florence,  with  something  of  Walton's 
charm — "  Maestro  Tomaso  da  Serezana,  who  was  afterwards 
Pope  Nicholas  v,  was  born  at  Pisa  of  humble  parents.  Later, 
on  account  of  discord  in  that  city,  his  father  was  imprisoned,  so 
that  he  went  to  Sarzana,  and  there  gave  to  his  little  son  in 
his  tender  years  lessons  in  grammar,  which,  through  the  excel- 
lence of  his  understanding,  he  quickly  learned.  His  father 
died,  however,  when  he  who  was  to  come  to  such  eminence 
was  but  nine  years  old,  leaving  two  sons,  one  Maestro  Tomaso, 
and  Maestro  Filippo,  who  later  was  Cardinal  of  Bologna. 
Now  Maestro  Tomaso  fell  sick  at  that  time,  and  his  mother, 
seeing  him  thus  ailing,  being  a  widow  and  having  all  her 
great  hope  in  her  sons,  was  in  the  greatest  anxiety  and  sorrow, 
and  prayed  God  unweariedly  to  spare  her  little  son.  Thus 
intent  in  prayer,  hoping  that  her  son  would  not  die,  she 
fell  asleep  about  dawn,  when  One  called  to  her  and  said : 
'  Andreola  (for  that  was  her  name),  doubt  nothing  that  thy 
son  shall  live.'  And  it  seemed  in  her  vision  that  she  saw 
her  son  in  a  bishop's  robe,  and  One  said  to  her  that  her  son 
would  be  Pope.  Waking  thus  from  this  dream,  immediately 
she  went  to  her  little  son  and  found  him  already  better,  and 
to  all  those  in  the  house  she  told  the  vision  she  had  had. 
Now,  when  the  child  was  well,  because  of  the  steadfast  hope 
which  the  vision  had  given  her,  she  at  once  begged  him  to 
pursue  his  studies ;  which  he  did,  so  that  when  he  was  sixteen 
he  had  a  very  good  knowledge  of  grammar  and  the  Latin 
tongue,  and  began  to  work  at  logic,  in  order  later  to  come  at 
philosophy  and  theology.     Then  he  left  Sarzana  and  went  to 

'  Even  the  name  is  uncertain.  In  the  Duomo  here,  in  Cappella  di  S. 
Tommaso,  you  may  find  his  mother's  grave,  on  which  she  is  called  Andreola 
dei  Calandrini.  His  uncle,  however,  is  called  J.  P.  Parentucelli.  In  two 
Bulls  of  Felix  v  he  is  called  Thomas  de  Calandrinis  ;  cf.  Mansi,  xxxi.  190. 

'  Muratori,  Rer.  Ital.  Strip.,  in.  ii.  107. 


8ARZANA  AND  LUNA  6l 

Bologna,  so  that  he  might  the  better  pursue  his  studies  in 
every  faculty.  At  Bologna  he  studied  in  logic  and  in  phil- 
osophy with  great  success.  In  a  short  time  he  became 
learned  in  all  the  seven  Liberal  Arts.  Staying  at  Bologna 
till  he  was  eighteen,  and  Master  of  Arts,  lacking  money,  it 
was  necessary  for  him  to  go  to  Bologna  to  his  mother,  who 
had  remarried,  in  order  to  have  money  to  furnish  his  expenses. 
She  was  poor  and  her  husband  not  very  rich,  and  then 
Tomaso  was  not  his  son,  but  a  stepson  :  he  could  not  obtain 
money  from  them.  Determined  to  follow  his  studies,  he 
thought  to  go  to  Florence,  the  mother  of  studies  and  every 
virtue  at  that  time.  So  he  went  thither,  and  found  Messer 
Rinaldo  degli  Albizzi,  a  most  exceptional  man,  who  carried 
him  off  to  instruct  his  sons,  giving  him  a  good  salary 
as  a  young  man  of  great  virtue.  At  the  end  of  a  year 
Messer  Rinaldo  left  Florence,  and  Maestro  Tomaso  wish- 
ing to  remain  in  the  city,  he  arranged  for  him  to  enter 
the  service  of  Messer  Palla  di  Nofri  Strozzi ;  and  from  him 
he  had  a  very  good  salary.  At  the  end  of  another  year 
he  had  gained  so  much  from  these  two  citizens  that  he 
had  enough  to  return  to  Bologna  to  his  studies,  though 
in  Florence  he  had  not  lost  his  time,  for  he  read  in  every 
faculty." 

Such  were  the  early  years  of  one  of  the  most  cultured  and 
princely  of  the  Popes.  Born  in  1398,  he  was  himself  one  of 
the  sons  of  the  early  Renaissance.  Not  altogether  without 
pedantry,  he  yet  by  his  learning,  by  his  patronage  of  scholars 
and  artists  (and  indeed  he  was  perhaps  the  first  Pope  who 
preferred  them  to  monks  and  friars),  secured  for  the  Renaissance 
the  allegiance  of  the  Church.  He  died  in  a  moment  of  mis- 
fortune for  Europe  in  1455,  just  after  the  fall  of  Constantinople, 
being  succeeded  on  the  throne  of  Christendom  by  Pius  11, 
Pius  ^neas  as  he  called  himself  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm, 
one  of  the  most  human  of  all  those  men  of  the  world  who 
have  become  the  vicegerent  of  Jesus.  Nicholas  v  was  not  a 
man  of  the  world,  he  was  a  scholar,  full  of  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  day.     As  a  statesman,  while  he  pacified  Italy,  he  saw 


62    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Byzantium  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  barbarians.  He  was  a 
Pagan  in  whom  there  was  no  guile.  His  enthusiasm  was 
rather  for  Apollo  and  the  Muses  than  for  Jesus  and  the  Saints. 
With  a  simplicity  touching  and  delightful,  he  watched  Sigis- 
mondo  Malatesta  build  his  temple  at  Rimini,  and  was  his 
friend  and  loved  him  well.  Pius  ii,  with  all  his  love  of 
nature  and  the  classics,  though  his  own  life  was  full  of 
unforttmate  secrets  and  his  pride  and  vanity  truly  Sienese, 
could  not  look  on  unmoved  while  Malatesta  built  a  temple 
to  the  old  gods  in  the  States  of  the  Church.  But  then  Pius 
had  not  lived  all  the  long  years  of  his  youth  at  Luna  Nova. 
Who  can  tell  what  half-forgotten  deity  may  have  found  Maestro 
Tomaso  asleep  in  the  woods,  that  magician  Virgil  in  his 
hands, — for  on  this  coast  the  gods  wander  even  yet, — and, 
creeping  behind  him,  finding  him  so  fair,  may  have  kissed 
him  on  the  ears,  as  the  snakes  kissed  Cassandra  when  she 
lay  asleep  at  noon  in  Troy  of  old.  Certainly  their  habita- 
tions, their  old  places  may  still  be  found.  We  are  not  so  far 
from  Porto  Venere,  and  then  on  the  highway  towards  Massa, 
not  long  after  you  have  come  out  of  the  beautiful  avenue  of 
plane  trees,  itself  like  some  great  temple,  through  which 
the  road  leaves  Sarzana,  you  come  upon  the  little  city  of 
Luna,  or  the  bright  fragments  of  it,  among  the  sand  of 
what  must  once  have  been  the  seashore,  with  here  a  fold  of 
the  old  amphitheatre,  there  the  curve  of  the  circus,  while 
scattered  on  the  grass  softer  than  sleep,  you  may  find  per- 
haps the  carved  name  of  a  goddess,  the  empty  pedestal  of  a 
statue. 

Lying  there  on  a  summer  day  in  the  everlasting  quietness, 
unbroken  even  by  a  wandering  wind  or  the  ripple  of  a  stream, 
some  inkling  of  that  old  Roman  life,  always  at  its  best  in  such 
country  places  as  this,  comes  to  you,  yes,  from  the  time  when 
Juno  was  yet  a  little  maid  among  the  mossy  fountains  and  the 
noise  of  the  brooks.  Tacitus  in  his  Agricola^  that  consoling 
book,  tells  us  of  those  homes  of  a  refined  and  severe  sim- 
plicity in  Frejus  and  Como,  but  it  is  to  Rutilius,  with  his 
strange  gift  of  impressionism,  you  must  go  for  a  glimpse  of 


SARZANA  AND  LUNA  63 

Luna.  In  his  perfect  verses^  we  may  see  the  place  as  he 
found  it,  when,  gliding  swiftly  on  the  waves,  perhaps  on  a 
day  like  this,  he  came  to  those  walls  of  glistening  marble, 
which  got  their  name  from  the  planet  that  borrows  her  light 
from  the  sun,  her  brother.  The  country  itself  furnished 
those  stones  which  shamed  with  their  whiteness  the  laugh- 
ing lilies,  while  their  polished  surface  with  its  veins  threw 
forth  shining  rays.  For  this  is  a  land  rich  in  marbles  which 
defy,  sure  of  their  victory,  the  virgin  whiteness  of  the  snow 
itself. 

Well,  there  is  but  little  left  of  that  shining  city,  and  yet, 
as  I  lay  dreaming  in  the  grass-grown  theatre,  it  seemed  to  be 
a  festal  day,  and  there  among  the  excited  and  noisy  throng 
of  holiday-makers,  just  for  a  moment  I  caught  sight  of  the 
aediles  in  their  white  tunics,  and  then,  far  away,  the  terrified 
face  of  a  little  child,  frightened  at  the  hideous  masks  of  the 
actors.  Then,  the  performance  over,  I  followed  home  some 
simple  old  centurion  was  it  ?  who,  returned  from  the  wars  on 
the  far  frontier,  had  given  the  city  a  shady  walk,  or  that  shrine 
of  Neptune.  We  came  at  last  to  a  country  house  of  "  pale 
red  and  yellow  marble,"  half  farm,  half  villa,  lying  away  from 
the  white  road  at  the  point  where  it  begins  to  decline  some- 
what sharply  to  the  marshland  below.  It  is  close  to  the  sea. 
Large  enough  for  all  requirements,  and  not  expensive  to  keep 
in  repair,  my  host  explains.  At  its  entrance  is  a  modest  but 
beautiful  hall ;  then  come  the  cloisters,  which  are  rounded  into 
the  likeness  of  the  letter  D,  and  these  enclose  a  small  and 
pretty  courtyard.  These  cloisters,  I  am  told,  are  a  fine  refuge 
in  a  storm,  for  they  are  protected  by  windows  and  deep  over- 
hanging eaves.     Facing  the  cloisters  is  a  cheerful  inner  court, 

'  Sed  diverticulo  fuimus  fortasse  Icx^uaccs 
Carmine  prreposito  jam  repclamus  iter. 
Advehimur  celeri  cadenta  moenia  lapsu 
Nominis  est  auctor  sole  corusca  soror 
Indigenis  superat  ridentia  lilia  saxis, 
Et  levi  radiat  picta  nitorc  silex 
Dives  marmoribus  tellus  qux  luce  colores 
Provocat  intactas  luxuriosa  nives. 


64    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

then  the  dining-room  towards  the  seashore,  fine  enough  for 
anyone,  as  my  host  asserts,  and  when  the  south-west  wind  is 
blowing  the  room  is  just  scattered  by  the  spray  of  the  spent 
waves.  On  all  sides  are  folding  doors,  or  windows  quite  as 
large  as  doors,  so  that  from  two  sides  and  the  front  you 
command  a  prospect  of  three  seas  as  it  were ;  while  at  the 
back,  as  he  shows  me,  one  can  see  through  the  inner  court 
to  the  woods  or  the  distant  hills.  Just  then  the  young 
mistress  of  the  place  comes  to  greet  me,  bidden  by  my  host 
her  father,  and  in  a  moment  I  see  the  nobility  of  this  life,  full 
of  pure  and  honourable  things,  together  with  a  certain  simplicity 
and  sweetness.  Seeing  my  admiration,  my  host  speaks  of  his 
daughter,  of  her  love  for  him,  of  her  delight  in  his  speeches, 
— for  he  is  of  authority  in  the  city, — of  how  on  such  occasions 
she  will  sit  screened  from  the  audience  by  a  curtain,  drinking 
in  what  people  say  to  his  credit  He  smiles  as  he  tells  me 
this,  adding  she  has  a  sharp  wit,  is  wonderfully  economical, 
and  loves  him  well ;  and  indeed  she  is  worthy  of  him,  and 
doubtless,  as  he  says,  of  her  grandfather.  Then  my  proud  old 
centurion  leads  me  down  the  alleys  of  his  garden  full  of  figs 
and  mulberries,  with  roses  and  a  few  violets,  till  in  the  perfect 
stillness  of  this  retreat  we  come  to  the  seashore,  and  there 
lies  the  white  city  of  Luna  glistening  in  the  sun.  As  I  take 
my  leave,  reluctantly,  for,  I  would  stay  longer,  my  hostess  is 
so  sweet,  my  host  so  charming,  I  catch  sight  of  the  name 
of  the  villa  cut  into  the  rosy  marble  of  the  gates  :  "  Ad  Vigilias 
Albas  "  I  read,  and  then  and  then  .  .  .  Why,  what  is  this  ?  I 
must  have  fallen  asleep  in  that  old  theatre  among  the  debris 
and  the  fine  grass.  Ad  Vigilias  Albas — "White  Nights," 
nights  not  of  quite  blank  forgetfulness,  certainly.  But  it  is 
with  the  ancestors  of  Marius  I  seem  to  have  been  talking 
in  the  old  city  of  Luna,  that  in  his  day  had  already  passed 
away.^ 

It  was  sunset  when  I  found  myself  at  the  door  of  the  Inn 
in  Sarzana. 

'  You  may  see  the  place  to-day — but  it  is  of  plaster  now — as  Pater 
describes  it. — Marius  the  Epicurian,  vol.  i.  20. 


CARRARA,  MASSA  DUCALE,  PIETRA 
SANTA,  VIAREGGIO 

AND  truly  it  is  into  a  city  of  marble  that  you  come,  when, 
following  the  dusty  road  full  of  the  ruts  of  the  bullock- 
wagons,  past  Avenza,  that  little  city  with  a  great  castle  of 
Castruccio  Castracani,  after  climbing  into  the  gorge  where  the 
bullocks,  a  dozen  of  them  it  may  be,  yoked  to  a  single  dray, 
take  all  the  way,  you  enter  the  cold  streets  of  Carrara,  that  are 
always  full  of  the  sound  of  falling  water.  And  strangely 
enough,  as  one  may  think,  in  this  far-away  place,  so  close  to 
the  mountains  as  to  be  littered  by  their  debris,  it  is  an  im- 
pression of  business  and  of  life  that  you  receive  beyond 
anything  of  the  sort  to  be  found  in  Spezia.  Not  a  beautiful 
city  certainly,  Carrara  has  a  little  the  aspect  of  an  encamp- 
ment, an  encampment  that  has  somehow  become  permanent, 
where  everything  has  been  built  in  a  hurry,  as  it  were,  of  the 
most  precious  and  permanent  material.  So  that,  while  the 
houses  are  of  marble,  they  seem  to  be  with  but  few  exceptions 
mere  shanties  without  beauty  of  any  sort,  that  were  built 
yesterday  for  shelter,  and  to-morrow  will  be  destroyed.  It  is 
true  that  the  Church  of  S.  Andrea  is  a  building  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  in  the  Gothic  manner,  with  a  fine  fagade  and 
sculptures|of  a  certain  merit,  but  it  fails  to  impress  itself  on  the 
town,  which  is  altogether  alien  from  it,  modern  for  the  most 
part  in  the  vulgar  way  of  our  time,  when  ornament  is  a  caprice 
of  the  rich  and  merely  ostentatious,  the  many  living,  without 
beauty  or  light,  in  barracks  or  huts  of  a  brutal  and  hideous 
uniformity. 

5 


(i6    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

It  was  a  Sunday  evening  when  I  came  to  Carrara;  all 
that  world  of  labouring  men  and  women  was  in  the  streets; 
in  the  piazza  a  band  played ;  close  to  the  hotel,  in  a  tent 
set  up  for  the  occasion,  a  particularly  atrocious  collection  of 
brass  instruments  were  being  blown  with  might  and  main, 
to  attract  the  populace  to  a  marionette  performance.  The 
whole  world  seemed  dizzy  with  noise.  After  dinner  I  went 
out  into  the  streets  among  the  people,  but  it  was  not  any  joy 
I  found  there,  only  a  mere  brutal  cessation  from  toil,  in  which, 
amid  noise  and  confusion,  the  labourer  sought  to  forget  his 
labour.  More  and  more  as  I  went  among  them  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  mountains  had  brutalised  those  who  won  from 
them  their  snowy  treasure.  In  all  Carrara  and  the  valley  of 
Torano  I  saw  no  beautiful  or  distinguished  faces, — the  women 
were  without  sweetness,  the  men  a  mere  gang  of  workmen. 
Now,  common  as  this  is  in  any  manufacturing  city  of  the 
North,  it  is  very  uncommon  in  Italy,  where  humanity  has  not 
been  injured  and  enslaved  by  machinery  as  it  has  with  us. 
You  may  generally  find  beauty,  sweetness,  or  wisdom  in  the 
faces  of  a  Tuscan  crowd  in  any  place.  Only  here  you  will 
see  the  man  who  has  become  just  the  fellow-labourer  of 
the  ox. 

I  understood  this  better  when,  about  four  o'clock  on  the 
next  morning,  I  went  in  the  company  of  a  lame  youth  into  the 
quarries  themselves.  There  are  some  half-dozen  of  them, 
glens  of  marble  that  lead  you  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains, 
valleys  without  shade,  full  of  a  brutal  coldness,  an  intolerable 
heat,  a  dazzling  light,  a  darkness  that  may  be  felt.  Torano, 
that  little  town  you  come  upon  at  the  very  threshold  of  the 
quarries,  is  like  a  town  of  the  Middle  Age,  full  of  stones  and 
refuse  and  narrow  ways  that  end  in  a  blind  nothingness,  and 
low  houses  without  glass  in  the  windows,  and  dogs  and  cats 
and  animals  of  all  sorts,  goats  and  chickens  and  pigs,  among 
which  the  people  live.  Thus  busy  with  the  frightful  labour 
among  the  stones  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  where  no 
green  thing  has  ever  grown  or  even  a  bird  built  her  nest,  where 
in  summer  the  sun  looks  down  like  some  enormous  moloch,  and 


CARRARA,  MASSA  DUCALE,  PIETRA  SANTA   67 

in  winter  the  frost  and  the  cold  scourge  them  to  their  labour  in 
the  horrid  ghostly  twilight,  the  people  work.  The  roads  are 
mere  tracks  among  the  blocks  and  hills  of  broken  marble, 
yellow,  black,  and  white  stones,  that  are  hauled  on  enormous 
trolleys  by  a  line  of  bullocks  in  which  you  may  often  find 
a  horse  or  a  pony.  Staggering  along  this  way  of  torture, 
sweating,  groaning,  rebelling,  under  the  whips  and  curses  and 
kicks  of  the  labourers,  who  either  sit  cursing  on  the  wagon 
among  the  marble,  or,  armed  with  great  whips,  slash  and  cut 
at  the  poor  capering,  patient  brutes,  the  oxen  drag  these 
immense  wagons  over  the  sharp  boulders  and  dazzling  rocks, 
grinding  them  in  pieces,  cutting  themselves  with  sharp  stones, 
pulling  as  though  to  break  their  hearts  under  the  tyranny  of 
the  stones,  not  less  helpless  and  insensate  than  they.  Here  and 
there  you  may  see  an  armed  sentry,  as  though  in  command 
of  a  gang  of  convicts,  here  and  there  an  official  of  some 
society  for  the  protection  of  animals,  but  he  is  quite  useless. 
Whether  he  be  armed  to  quell  a  rebellion  or  to  put  the 
injured  animals  out  of  their  pain,  I  know  not.  In  any  case,  he 
is  a  sign  of  the  state  of  life  in  these  valleys  of  marble.  Out 
of  this  insensate  hell  come  the  impossible  statues  that  grin 
about  our  cities.  Here,  cut  by  the  most  hideous  machinery 
with  a  noise  like  the  shrieking  of  iron  on  iron,  the  mantel- 
pieces and  washstands  of  every  jerry-built  house  and  obscene 
emporium  of  machine-made  furniture  are  sawn  out  of  the 
rock.  There  is  no  joy  in  this  labour,  and  the  savage,  harsh 
yell  of  the  machines  drown  any  song  that  of  old  might  have 
lightened  the  toil.  Blasted  out  of  the  mountains  by  slaves, 
some  13,000  of  them,  dragged  by  tortured  and  groaning 
animals,  the  marble  that  might  have  built  a  Parthenon  is  sold 
to  the  manufacturer  to  decorate  the  houses  of  the  middle 
classes,  the  studios  of  the  incompetent,  the  streets  of  our 
trumpery  cities.  Do  you  wonder  why  Carrara  has  never 
produced  a  sculptor?  The  answer  is  here  in  the  quarries 
that,  having  dehumanised  man,  have  themselves  become 
obscene.  The  frightful  leprous  glare  of  crude  whiteness  that 
shines  in  every  cemetery  in  Europe  marks  only  the  dead ;  the 


68    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

material  has  in  some  strange  way  lost  its  beauty,  and  with  the 
loss  of  beauty  in  the  material  the  art  of  sculpture  has  been 
lost     These  thousands  of  slaves  who  are  hewing  away  the 
mountains  are  ludicrous  and  ridiculous  in  their  brutality  and 
absurdity.     They  have  sacrificed  their  humanity  for  no  end. 
The  quarries  are  worked  for  money,  not  for  art     The  stone  is 
cut  not  that  Rodin  may  make  a  splendid  statue,  but  that  some 
company  may  earn  a  dividend.     As  you  climb  higher  and 
higher,  past  quarry  after  quarry,  it  is  a  sense  of  slavery  and 
death  that  you  feel.     Everywhere  there  is  struggle,  rebellion, 
cruelty ;  everywhere  you  see  men,  bound  by  ropes,  slung  over 
the  dazzling  face  of  the  clififs,  hacking  at  the  mountains  with 
huge  iron  pikes,  or  straining  to  crash  down  a  boulder  for  the 
ox  wagons.     As  you  get  higher   an  anxious  and  disastrous 
silence  surrounds  you,  the  violated  spirit  of  the  mountains 
that  has  jielded  itself  only  to  the  love  of  Michelangelo  seems  to 
be  about  to  overwhelm  you  in  some  frightful  tragedy.     In  the 
shadowless  cool  light  of  early  morning,  these  pallid  ^-alleys, 
horrid  with  noise  of  struggle  and  terror,  the  snorting  of  a 
horse,  the  bellow  of  a  bullock  in  pain,  seem  like  some  fantastic 
dream  of  a  new  Inferno ;  but  when  at  last  the  enormous  sun 
has  risen  over  the  mountains,  and  flooded  the  glens  with 
furious  heat,  it  is  as  though  you  walked  in  some  delirium,  a 
shining  world  full  of  white  fire  dancing  in  agony  around  you. 
You  stximble  along,  sometimes  waiting  till  a  wagon  and  twelve 
oxen  have  been  beaten  and  thrust  past  you  on  the  ascent, 
sometimes  driven  half  mad  by  the  booming  of  the  dynamite, 
here  threading  an  icy  timnel,  there  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice, 
almost  fainting  in  the  heat,  listening  madly  to  the  sound  of 
water  far  below.     Then,  as  you  return  through   the  sinister 
town  of  Torano  with  its  sickening  sights  and  smells,  you  come 
into  the  pandemonium  of  the  workshops,  where  nothing  has  a 
being  but  the  shriek  of  the  rust)'  saws  drenched  with  water, 
driven  by  machinery,  cutting  the  marble  into  uniform  slabs 
to  line  uriiuls  or  pave  a  closet     At  last,  in  a  sort  of  despair, 
overwhelmed  with  heat  and  noise,  you  reach  your  inn,  and 
though  it  be  midday  in  July,  you  seize  your  small  baggage 


CARRARA,  MASSA  DUCALE,  PIETRA  SANTA   69 

and  set  out  where  the  difficult  road  leads  out  of  this  spoiled 
valley  to  the  olives  and  the  sea. 

It  was  midday  when,  in  spite  of  the  sun,  I  set  out  up  the 
long  hill  that  leads  to  La  Foce  and  Massa  from  Carrara.  It 
is  a  road  that  turns  continually  on  itself,  climbing  always, 
among  the  olive  woods  and  chestnuts,  where  the  girls  sing  as 
they  herd  the  goats,  and  the  pleasant  murmur  of  the  summer, 
the  song  of  the  cicale,  the  wind  of  the  hills,  cleanse  your  heart 
of  the  horror  of  Carrara.  Climbing  thus  at  peace  with 
yourself  for  a  long  hour,  you  come  suddenly  to  La  Foce,  a 
sort  of  ridge  or  pass  between  the  loftier  hills,  whence  you  may 
see  the  long  hidden  sea,  and  Montignoso,  that  old  Lombard 
castle  still  fierce  among  the  olive  woods,  and  Massa  itself,  Massa 
Ducale,  a  lofty  precipitous  city  crowned  by  an  old  fortress. 
Who  may  describe  the  beauty  of  the  way  under  the  far-away 
peaks  of  marble,  splendid  in  their  rugged  gesture,  their 
immortal  perfection  and  indifference !  And  indeed,  from  La 
Foce  all  the  noise  and  cruelty  of  that  life  in  the  quarries  at 
Carrara  is  forgotten.  As  you  begin  to  descend  by  the 
beautiful  road  that  winds  along  the  sides  of  the  hills,  the 
burden  of  those  immense  quarries,  echoing  with  cries  of 
distress  inarticulate  and  pitiful,  falls  away  from  one.  Here  is 
Italy  herself,  fair  as  a  goddess,  delicate  as  a  woman,  forlorn 
upon  the  mountains.  Everywhere  in  the  quiet  afternoon  songs 
come  to  you  from  the  shady  woods,  from  the  hillsides  and 
the  streams.  Something  of  the  simplicity  and  joy  of  a  life 
we  have  only  known  in  our  hearts  is  expressed  in  every  fold 
of  the  mountains,  olive  clad  and  terraced  with  walks  and 
vines,  where  the  husbandman  labours  till  evening  and  the 
com  is  ripe  or  reaping,  and  the  sound  of  the  flute  dances  like 
a  fountain  in  the  shade.  And  so,  when  at  evening  you  enter 
the  noble  city  of  Massa,  among  the  women  sitting  at  their 
doors  sewing  or  knitting  in  the  sunset,  while  the  children, 
whole  crowds  of  them,  play  in  the  narrow  streets,  their  laughter 
echoing  among  the  old  houses  as  the  sun  dances  in  a  narrow 
valley,  or  you  pass  among  the  girls  who  walk  together  in  a 


70    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

nosegay,  arm  in  arm,  or  the  young  men  who  lounge  together 
in  a  crowd  against  the  houses  watching  them,  there  is  joy  in 
your  heart,  because  this  is  life,  simple  and  frank  and  full  of 
hope,  without  an  afterthought  or  a  single  hesitation  of  doubt 
or  fear. 

There  is  little  to  be  seen  at  Massa  that  is  not  just  the 
natural  beauty  of  the  place,  set  like  a  flower  among  the 
woods,  that  climb  up  to  the  marble  peaks.  Not  without  a 
certain  interest  you  come  upon  the  Prefettura,  which  once  was 
the  summer  castle  of  Elisa  Baciocchi,  Napoleon's  sister,  who 
as  a  gift  from  him  held  Lucca,  and  was  much  beloved,  from 
1805  to  1814.  And  joyful  as  the  country  is  under  that 
impartial  sun,  before  that  wide  and  ancient  sea,  among  her 
quiet  woods  and  broken  shrines,  it  is  not  without  a  kind  of 
hesitation  and  shame  almost  that  you  learn  that  the  great 
fortress  which  crowns  the  city  is  now  a  prison  in  which  are 
many  half-witted  unhappy  folk,  who  in  this  transitory  life  have 
left  the  common  way.  It  is  strange  that  in  so  many  lands 
the  prison  is  so  often  in  a  place  of  the  greatest  beauty.  At 
Tarragona,  far  away  over  the  sea  looking  towards  Italy,  the 
hospital  of  those  who  have  for  one  cause  or  another  fallen  by 
the  way  is  set  by  the  sea-shore,  almost  at  the  feet  of  the 
waves,  so  that  in  a  storm  the  momentary  foam  from  those 
restless,  free  waters  must  often  be  scattered  about  the  courtyard, 
where  those  who  have  injured  us,  and  whom  in  our  wisdom 
we  have  deprived  of  the  world,  are  permitted  to  walk.  It  is 
much  the  same  in  Tangier,  where  the  horrid  gaol,  always  full 
of  groans  and  the  torture  of  the  bastinado,  is  in  the  dip  of  the 
Kasbah,  where  it  joins  the  European  city  with  nothing  really 
between  it  and  the  Atlantic.  In  Massa  these  prisoners  and 
captives  can  see  the  sea  and  the  great  mountains,  and  must 
often  hear  the  piping  of  those  who  wander  freely  in  the  woods. 
Even  in  Italy,  it  seems,  where  the  criminal  is  beginning  to 
be  understood  as  a  sick  person,  they  have  not  yet  contrived 
to  banish  the  older  method  of  treatment :  as  who  should  say, 
you  are  ill  and  fainting  with  anaemia,  come  let  me  bleed  you. 

It  is  at  Massa  that  on  your  way  south  you  come  again  into 


CARRARA,  MASSA  DUCALE,  PIETRA  SANTA    71 

the  highroad  from  Genoa  to  Pisa,  for  while,  having  left  it  at 
Spezia,  you  found  it  again  at  Sarzana,  it  was  a  by-road  that 
led  you  to  Carrara  and  again  to  Massa  Ducale.  Now,  though 
the  way  you  seek  be  the  highway  of  the  pilgrims,  it  is  none 
the  better  as  a  road  for  that.  For  the  wagons  bringing  marble 
to  the  cities  by  the  way  have  spoiled  it  altogether,  so  that  you 
find  it  ground  with  ruts  six  inches  deep  and  smothered  in 
dust ;  therefore,  if  you  come  by  carriage,  and  still  more  if  you 
be  en  automobile,  it  is  necessary  to  go  warily.  On  foot  nothing 
matters  but  the  dust,  and  if  you  start  early  from  Massa  that 
will  not  annoy  you,  for  in  the  early  morning,  for  some  reason 
of  the  gods,  the  dust  lies  on  the  highway  undisturbed,  while 
by  ten  o'clock  the  air  is  full  of  it.  It  is  a  bad  road  then 
all  the  way  to  Pietrasanta,  but  most  wonderful  and  lovely 
nevertheless.  For  the  most  part  the  sea  is  hidden  from  you, 
for  you  are  in  truth  on  the  sea-shore,  though  far  enough  from 
the  waves,  a  land  of  fields  and  cucumbers  coming  between 
road  and  water.  Swinging  along  in  the  dawn,  you  soon  pass 
that  old  castle  of  Montignoso,  crumbling  on  its  high  rock, 
built  by  the  Lombard  Agilulf  to  hold  the  road  to  Italy. 
Then  not  without  surprise  you  pass  quite  under  an  old 
Albergo  which  crosses  the  way,  where  certainly  of  old  the 
people  of  Massa  took  toll  of  the  Tuscans,  and  the  Tuscans 
taxed  all  who  came  into  their  country.  Then  the  road  winds 
through  a  gorge  beside  a  river,  and  at  last  between  delicious 
woods  of  olives  full  of  silver  and  golden  shade  most  pleasant 
in  the  heat,  past  Seravezza  in  the  hills,  you  come  to  the  little 
pink  and  white  town  of  Pietrasanta  under  the  woods,  at  noon. 
Pietrasanta  is  set  at  the  foot  of  the  Hills  of  Paradise, 
littered  with  marble,  planted  with  figs  and  oleanders,  full  of 
the  sun.  For  hours  you  may  climb  among  the  olives  on 
the  hills,  terraced  for  vines,  shimmering  in  the  heat ;  and 
resting  there,  watch  the  sleepy  sea  lost  in  a  silver  mist,  the 
mysterious  blue  hills,  listening  to  the  songs  of  the  maidens  in 
the  gardens.  Thus  watching  the  summer  pass  by,  caught  by 
her  beauty,  lying  on  an  old  wall  beautiful  with  lichen  and  the 
colours  of  many  autumns,  suddenly  you  may  be  startled  by 


72     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  stealthy,  unconcerned  approach  of  a  great  snake  three 
feet  long  at  least,  winding  along  the  gully  by  the  roadside. 
Half  fascinated  and  altogether  fearful,  you  watch  her  pass  by 
till  she  disappears  bit  by  bit  in  an  incredibly  small  fissure  in 
the  vineyard  wall,  leaving  you  breathless.  Or  all  day  long  you 
will  lie  under  the  olives  waiting  for  the  coolness  of  evening, 
listening  to  the  sound  of  everlasting  summer,  the  piping  of 
a  shepherd,  the  little  lovely  song  of  a  girl,  the  lament  of 
the  cicale.  Then  returning  to  Pietrasanta,  you  will  sit  in  the 
evening  perhaps  in  the  Piazza  there,  quite  surrounded  by  the  old 
walls,  with  its  mediaeval  air,  its  lovely  Municipio  and  fine  old 
Gothic  churches.  Here  you  may  watch  all  the  city,  the  man 
and  his  wife  and  children,  the  young  girls  laughing  together, 
conscious  of  the  shy  admiration  of  the  youth  of  the  place ; 
and  you  will  be  struck  by  the  beauty  of  these  people,  peasants 
and  workmen,  their  open,  frank  faces,  their  grace  and  strength, 
their  unconcerned  delight  in  themselves,  their  air  of  distinction 
too,  coming  to  them  from  a  long  line  of  ancestors  who  have 
lived  with  the  earth,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea. 

Then  in  the  early  morning,  perhaps,  you  will  enter 
S.  Martino  and  hear  the  early  Mass,  where  there  are  still 
so  many  worshippers,  and  then,  lingering  after  the  service, 
you  will  admire  the  pulpit,  carved  really  by  one  of  those 
youths  whose  frankness  and  grace  surprised  you  in  the  Piazza 
on  the  night  before — Stagio  Stagi,  a  native  of  this  place,  a 
fine  artist  whose  work  continually  meets  you  in  Pietrasanta. 
Indeed,  in  the  choir  of  the  church  there  are  some  candelabra 
by  him,  and  an  altar,  built,  as  it  is  said,  out  of  two  confessional 
boxes.  In  the  Baptistery  close  by  are  some  bronzes,  said  to 
be  the  work  of  Donatello,  and  some  excellent  sculptures  by 
Stagio;  while,  as  though  to  bear  out  the  hidden  paganism, 
some  dim  memory  of  the  old  gods,  that  certainly  haunts  this 
shrine,  the  font  is  an  old  Roman  tazza,  carved  with  Tritons 
and  Neptune  among  the  waves ;  but  over  it.  now,  stands 
another  supposed  work  of  Donatello,  S.  Giovanni  Battista, 
reconciled,  as  we  may  hope,  with  those  whose  worship  he 
has  usurped. 


CARRARA,  MASSA  DUCALE,  PIETRA  SANTA    73 

The  fa9ade  of  S.  Martino  is  of  the  fourteenth  century,  as 
is  that  of  S.  Agostino,  its  neighbour,  where  you  may  find 
another  altar  by  Stagio. 

Then  it  may  be  at  evening  you  seek  the  sea-shore,  that 
mysterious,  forlorn  coast  where  the  waves  break  almost  with 
a  caress.  It  was  here,  or  not  far  away,  somewhere  between 
this  little  wonderful  city  and  Viareggio,  then  certainly  a  mere 
village,  that  Shelley's  body  was  burned,  as  Trelawney  records.^ 
"  The  lovely  and  grand  scenery  that  surrounded  us,"  he  says, 
"  so  exactly  harmonised  with  Shelley's  genius,  that  I  could 
imagine  his  spirit  soaring  over  us.  .  .  .  Not  a  human  dwelling 
was  in  sight.  ...  I  got  a  furnace  made  at  Leghorn  of  iron 
bars  and  strong  sheet-iron  supported  on  a  stand,  and  laid  in 
a  stock  of  fuel  and  such  things  as  were  said  to  be  used  by 
Shelley's  much-loved  Hellenes  on  their  funeral  pyres.  ...  At 
ten  on  the  following  morning.  Captain  S.  and  myself,  accom- 
panied by  several  officers  of  the  town,  proceeded  in  our  boat 
down  the  small  river  which  runs  through  Via  Reggio  (and 
forms  its  ^harbour  for  coasting  vessels)  to  the  sea.^  Keeping 
along  the  beach  towards  Massa,  we  landed  at  about  a  mile 
from  Via  Reggio,  at  the  foot  of  the  grave ;  the  place  was 
noted  by  three  wand-like  reeds  stuck  in  the  sand  in  a  parallel 
line  from  high  to  low-water  mark.  Doubting  the  authenticity 
of  such  pyramids,  we  moved  the  sand  in  the  line  indicated, 
but  without  success.  I  then  got  five  or  six  men  with  spades 
to  dig  transverse  lines.  In  the  meanwhile  Lord  Byron's 
carriage  with  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  arrived,  accompanied  by  a 
party  of  dragoons  and  the  chief  officers  of  the  town.  In 
about  an  hour,  and  when  almost  in  despair,  I  was  paralysed 
with  the  sharp  and  thrilling  noise  a  spade  made  in  coming 
in  direct  contact  with  the  skull.     We  now  carefully  removed 

'  I  no  longer  believe  it  is  possible  to  be  certain  of  the  place.  At  any 
rate,  all  the  guide-books,  Baedeker,  Murray,  and  Hare,  are  wrong,  though 
not  so  far  out  as  that  gentleman  who,  having  assured  us  that  Boccaccio 
was  a  "  little  priest,"  and  that  Petrarch,  Poliziano,  Lorenzo,  and  Pulci 
were  of  no  account  as  poets,  remarks  that  Shelley's  body  was  found  at 
Lerici,  and  that  he  was  burned  close  by. 

'  See  Carmichael,  The  Old  Road,  etc. 


74    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  sand.  This  grave  was  even  nearer  the  sea  than  the  other 
[Williams's],  and  although  not  more  than  two  feet  deep,  a 
quantity  of  the  salt  water  oozed  in. 

"...  We  have  built  a  much  larger  pile  to-day,  having 
previously  been  deceived  as  to  the  immense  quantity  of  wood 
necessary  to  consume  a  body  in  the  unconfined  atmosphere. 
Mr.  Shelley  had  been  reading  the  poems  of  "  Lamia "  and 
"  Isabella "  by  Keats,  as  the  volume  was  found  turned  back 
open  in  his  pocket;  so  sudden  was  the  squall.  The  frag- 
ments being  now  collected  and  placed  in  the  furnace  here 
fired,  and  the  flames  ascended  to  the  height  of  the  lofty 
pines  near  us.  We  again  gathered  round,  and  repeated,  as 
far  as  we  could  remember,  the  ancient  rites  and  ceremonies 
used  on  similar  occasions.  Lord  B.  wished  to  have  pre- 
served the  skull,  which  was  strikingly  beautiful  in  its  form. 
It  was  very  small  and  very  thin,  and  fell  to  pieces  on 
attempting  to  remove  it. 

"Notwithstanding  the  enormous  fire,  we  had  ample  time 
e'er  it  was  consumed  to  contemplate  the  singular  beauty  and 
romantic  wildness  of  the  scenery  and  objects  around  us. 
Via  Reggio,  the  only  seaport  of  the  Duchy  of  Lucca,  built 
and  encompassed  by  an  almost  boundless  expanse  of  deep, 
dark  sand,  is  situated  in  the  centre  of  a  broad  belt  of  firs, 
cedars,  pines,  and  evergreen  oaks,  which  covers  a  considerable 
extent  of  country,  extending  along  the  shore  from  Pisa  to 
Massa.  The  bay  of  Spezia  was  on  our  right,  and  Leghorn 
on  our  left,  at  almost  equal  distances,  with  their  headlands 
projecting  far  into  the  sea,  and  forming  this  whole  space  of 
interval  into  a  deep  and  dangerous  gulf.  A  current  setting 
in  strong,  with  a  N.W.  gale,  a  vessel  embayed  here  was 
in  a  most  perilous  situation ;  and  consequently  wrecks  were 
numerous :  the  water  is  likewise  very  shoal,  and  the  breakers 
extend  a  long  way  from  the  shore.  In  the  centre  of  this 
bay  my  friends  were  wrecked,  and  their  bodies  tossed  about — 
Captain  Williams  seven,  and  Mr.  Shelley  nine  days,  e'er  they 
were  found.  Before  us  was  a  most  extensive  view  of  the 
Mediterranean,  with  the  isles  of  Gorgona,  Caprera,  Elba,  and 


CARRARA,  MASSA  DUCALE,  PIETRA  SANTA    75 

Corsica  in  sight.  All  around  us  was  a  wilderness  of  barren 
soil  with  stunted  trees,  moulded  into  grotesque  and  fantastic 
forms  by  the  cutting  S.W.  gales.  At  short  and  equal 
distances  along  the  coast  stood  high,  square,  antique-looking 
towers,  with  flagstaffs  on  the  turrets,  used  to  keep  a  look-out 
at  sea  and  enforce  the  quarantine  laws.  In  the  background 
was  the  long  line  of  the  Italian  Alps. 

"...  After  the  fire  was  kindled  .  .  .  more  wine  was 
poured  over  Shelley's  dead  body  than  he  had  consumed 
during  his  life.  This,  with  the  oil  and  salt,  made  the  yellow 
flames  glisten  and  quiver.  .  .  .  The  only  portions  that  were 
not  consumed  were  some  fragments  of  bones,  the  jaw  and 
the  skull ;  but  what  surprised  us  all  was  that  the  heart  re- 
mained entire.  In  snatching  this  relic  from  the  fiery  furnace 
my  hand  was  severely  burnt  j  and  had  anyone  seen  me  do 
the  act  I  should  have  been  put  in  quarantine."  Shelley's 
ashes  were  taken  to  Rome,  and  buried  in  the  English  cemetery 
there,  a  place  he  loved,  and  that  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  beautiful  graveyards  of  Italy. 

Of  Viareggio  itself  there  is  little  to  be  said.  It  is  a  town 
by  the  seaside,  full  in  summer  of  holiday-making  Tuscans 
from  Florence  and  the  cities  round  about.  A  pretty  place 
enough,  it  possesses  an  unique  market-place  covered  in  by 
ancient  twisted  plane  trees,  where  the  old  women  chaffer  with 
the  cooks  and  contadine.  But  nothing,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
and  certainly  not  so  modern  a  place  as  Viareggio,  will  keep 
you  long  from  Pisa.  Even  on  the  dusty  way  from  Pietra- 
santa,  at  every  turn  of  the  road  one  has  half  expected  to  see 
the  leaning  tower  and  the  Duomo.  And  it  is  really  with  an 
indescribable  impatience  you  spend  the  night  in  Viareggio. 
Starting  at  dawn,  still  without  a  glimpse  of  Pisa,  you  enter  the 
Pineta  before  the  sun,  that  lovely,  green,  cool  forest  full  of  silver 
shadows,  with  every  here  and  there  a  little  farm  for  the  pine 
cones,  about  which  they  are  heaped  in  great  banks.  Coming 
out  of  this  on  the  dusty  road  in  the  golden  heat,  between 
fields  of  cucumbers,  you  meet  market  carts  and  contadini 
returning  from  the  city.      Then   you  cross  the  Serchio  in 


76    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  early  light,  still  and  mysterious  as  a  river  out  of 
Malory.  And  at  last,  suddenly,  like  a  mirage,  the  towers 
of  Pisa  rise  before  you,  faint  and  mysterious  as  in  a 
dream.  As  you  turn  to  look  behind  you  at  the  world  you  are 
leaving,  you  find  that  the  mountains,  those  marvellous  Apuan 
Alps  with  their  fragile  peaks,  have  been  lost  in  the  distance 
and  the  sky ;  and  so,  with  half  a  regret,  full  of  expectancy 
and  excitement  nevertheless,  you  quicken  your  pace,  and 
even  in  the  heat  set  out  quickly  for  the  white  city  before  you, 
— Pisa,  once  lord  of  the  sea,  the  first  great  city  of  Tuscany. 


VI 

PISA 

I 

To  enter  Pisa  by  the  Porta  Nuova,  coming  at  once  into 
the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  is  as  though  at  midday,  on  the 
highway,  one  had  turned  aside  into  a  secret  meadow  full  of 
a  strange  silence  and  dazzling  light,  where  have  been  aban- 
doned among  the  wild  flowers  the  statues  of  the  gods.  For 
the  Piazza  is  just  that — a  meadow  scattered  with  daisies,  among 
which,  as  though  forgotten,  stand  unbroken  a  Cathedral, 
a  Baptistery,  a  Tower,  and  a  Cemetery,  all  of  marble,  separate 
and  yet  one  in  the  consummate  beauty  of  their  grouping. 
And  as  though  weary  of  the  silence  and  the  light,  the  tower 
has  leaned  towards  the  flowers,  which  may  fade  and  pass  away. 
So  amid  the  desolation  of  the  Acropolis  must  the  statues  of 
the  Parthenon  have  looked  on  the  hills  and  the  sea,  with 
something  of  this  abandoned  splendour,  this  dazzling  solitude, 
this  mysterious  calm  silence,  satisfied  and  serene. 

Wherever  you  may  be  in  Pisa,  you  cannot  sceape  from  the 
mysterious  influence  of  those  marvellous  ghosts  that  haunt 
the  verge  of  the  city,  that  corner  apart  where  the  wind  is 
white  on  the  grass,  and  the  shadows  steal  slowly  through  the 
day.  The  life  of  the  world  is  far  away  on  the  other  side  of 
the  city ;  here  is  only  beauty  and  peace. 

If  you  come  into  the  Piazza,  as  most  travellers  do,  from 
the  Lung'  Arno,  as  you  turn  into  the  Via  S.  Maria  or  out  of 
the  Borgo  into  the  beautiful  Piazza  dei  Cavalieri,  gradually  as 

77 


78    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

you  pass  on  your  way  life  hesitates  and  at  last  deserts  you. 
In  the  Via  S.  Maria,  for  instance,  that  winds  like  a  stream 
from  the  Duomo  towards  Amo,  at  first  all  is  gay  with  the 
memory  and  noise  of  the  river,  the  dance  of  the  sun  and 
the  wind.  Then  you  pass  a  church ;  some  shadow  seems  to 
glide  across  the  way,  and  it  is  almost  in  dismay  you  glance 
up  at  the  silent  palaces,  the  colour  of  pearl,  barred  and  empty  ; 
and  then  looking  down  see  the  great  paved  way  where  your 
footsteps  make  an  echo ;  while  there  amid  the  great  slabs  of 
granite  the  grass  is  peeping.  It  is  generally  out  of  such  a 
shadowy  street  as  this  that  one  comes  into  the  dazzling 
Piazza  del  Duomo.  But  indeed,  all  Pisa  is  like  that.  You 
pass  from  church  to  church,  from  one  deserted  Piazza  to 
another,  and  everywhere  you  disturb  some  shadow,  some 
silence  is  broken,  some  secret  seems  to  be  hid.  The  presence 
of  those  marvellous  abandoned  things  in  the  far  corner  of  the 
city  is  felt  in  every  byway,  in  every  alley,  in  every  forgotten 
court.  "Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city"  this  splendour  is 
immortal,  this  glory  is  not  dead. 


II 

"Varie  sono  le  opinion!  degli  Scrittori  circa  I'edificazione 
di  Pisa,"  says  Tronci  in  his  Annali  Pisani,  published  at 
Livomo  in  the  seventeenth  century.  "Various  are  the 
opinions  of  writers  as  to  the  building  of  Pisa,  but  all  agree 
that  it  was  founded  by  the  Greeks.  Cato  in  his  Fragment, 
and  Dionysius  Halicarnassus  in  the  first  book  of  his  History, 
aflfirm  that  the  founders  were  the  Pisi  Alfei  Pelasgi,  who  had 
for  their  captain  the  King  Pelops,  as  Pliny  says  in  his  Natural 
History  (lib.  5),  and  Solinus  too,  as  though  it  were  indubit- 
able :  who  does  not  know  that  Pisa  was  from  Pelops  ? " 
Certainly  Pisa  is  very  old,  and  whether  or  no  King  Pelops, 
as  Pliny  thought,  founded  the  city,  the  Romans  thought  her 
as  old  as  Troy.     In  225  b.c.  she  was  an  Etruscan  city,  and 


PISA  79 

the  friend  of  Rome ;  in  Strabo's  day  she  was  but  two  miles 
from  the  sea ;  in  Caesar's  time  she  became  a  Roman  military 
station ;  while  in  4  a.d.  we  read  that  the  disturbances  at  the 
elections  were  so  serious  that  she  was  left  without  magistrates. 
That  fact  in  itself  seems  to  bring  the  city  before  our  eyes :  it 
is  so  strangely  characteristic  of  her  later  history. 

But  in  spite  of  her  enormous  antiquity,  there  are  very  few 
vestiges  left  of  her  Etruscan  and  Roman  days,  the  remains 
of  some  Roman  Thermae,  Bagni  di  Nerone  near  the  Porta 
Lucca  being,  indeed,  all  that  we  may  claim,  save  the  urns  and 
sarcophagi  scattered  in  the  Campo  Santo,  from  the  great 
days  of  Rome.  The  glory  of  Pisa  is  the  end  of  the  Middle 
Age  and  the  early  dawn  of  the  Renaissance.  There,  amid 
all  the  hurly-burly  and  terror  of  invasion  and  civil  wars,  she 
shines  like  a  beacon  beside  the  sea,  proud,  brave,  and  full  of 
hope,  almost  the  only  city  not  altogether  enslaved  in  a 
country  in  the  grip  of  the  barbarian,  almost  overwhelmed  by 
the  Lombards.  And  indeed,  she  was  one  of  the  first  cities 
of  Italy  to  fling  off  the  Lombard  yoke.  Favoured  by  her 
position  on  the  shores  of  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea,  yet  not  so  near 
the  coast  as  to  invite  piracy,  she  waged  incessant  war  on 
Greek  and  Saracen.  Lombardy,  heavy  with  conquest,  fearful 
for  her  prize,  which  was  Italy,  was  compelled  to  encourage  the 
growth  of  the  naval  cities.  It  was  on  the  sea  that  the  future 
of  Pisa  lay,  like  the  glory  of  the  sun  that  in  its  splendour  and 
pride  passes  away  too  soon. 

Already  in  the  ninth  century  we  hear  of  her  prowess  at 

Salerno,  while  in  the  tenth,  having  possessed  herself  of  her 

own  government  under  consuls,  she  sent  a  fleet  to  help  the 

Emperor  Otho  11  in  Sicily.     Fighting  without  respite  or  rest, 

continually  victorious,  never   downhearted,  she  had   opened 

the  weary  story  of  the  civil  strife  of  Italy  with  a  war  against 

Lucca,  in  the  year   1004.^     It  was  the  first  outburst  of  that 

'  Muratori,  Annali  ad  ann.  :  He  quotes  from  Annali  Pisani  (see  torn, 
vi.,  Rer.  Ital.  Scrip.):  "  Fecerunt  bellum  I'isani  cum  Lucensibus  in  aqua 
longa,  et  vicerunt  illos."     See  Arch.  St.  It.  vi.  ii.  p.  4.  Cron.   Pis.  ad 


8o    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

hatred  in  her  heart  which  in  the  end  was  to  destroy  her :  for 
she  died  of  a  poverty  of  love. 

In  1005,  still  with  her  fleet  engaged  in  Sicilian  waters,  the 
Arab  pirates  fell  upon  her,  and,  forcing  the  harbour,  sacked  a 
whole  quarter  of  the  city.  For  the  time  Pisa  could  do  little 
against  the  foes  of  Europe,  but  in  1016  she  allied  herself 
with  that  city  which  proved  at  last  to  be  her  deadliest  foe,  Genoa 
the  Proud,  and  the  united  fleets  swept  down  on  Sardinia  for 
vengeance.  It  was  this  victorious  expedition  that  aroused  the 
hatred  of  the  Pisans  for  Genoa,  a  jealousy  that  was  only 
extinguished  when  at  last  Pisa  was  crushed  at  Meloria. 

Many  were  the  attempts  of  the  Arabs  to  regain  Sardinia, 
but  Pisa  was  not  to  be  deceived.  Coasting  along  the  African 
shore,  her  fleet  took  Bona  and  threatened  Carthage.  Yet  in 
1050  the  Arabs  of  Morocco  and  Spain  stole  the  island  from 
her,  only  Cagliari  holding  out  under  the  nobles  for  the  mother 
city.  There  was  more  than  the  loss  of  Sardinia  at  stake,  for 
with  the  victory  of  the  Arabs  the  highway  of  the  sea  was  no 
longer  secure,  the  existence  of  Pisa,  and  not  of  Pisa  only,  was 
threatened.  So  we  find  Genoa  once  more  standing  beside 
Pisa  in  the  fight  of  Europe.  The  fleets  again  were  combined, 
this  time  under  the  command  of  a  Pisan,  one  Gualduccio,  a 
plebeian.  He  sailed  for  Cagliari,  landed  his  men,  and  engaged 
the  enemy  on  the  beach.  The  Arabs  were  led  by  the  King 
Mogahid,  Rb  Musetto,  as  the  Italians  called  him.  He  was  over 
eighty  years  old  at  the  time,  and  though  still  full  of  cunning 
valour,  attacked  by  the  fleets  in  front  and  the  garrison  in  the 
rear,  his  army  was  defeated  and  put  to  flight.  He  himself, 
fleeing  on  horseback,  was  wounded  in  two  places,  and  falling 
was  captured ;  and  they  took  him  in  chains  to  Pisa,  where  he 
died.  Thus  Sardinia  once  more  fell  into  the  hands  of 
Europe,  and  the  island,  divided  in  fiefs  under  the  rule  of 
Pisa,^  was  held  and  governed  by  her. 

But  Pisa  was  not  yet  done  with  the  Arab.     She  stood  for 

'  Muratori,  Annali  ad  antt.  1050  :   "  et  Pisa  fuil  firmata  dc  tola  Sardinia 
a  Romana  sede. " — Ann.  Pis.,  K.I.S.,  torn.  vi. 


PISA  8 1 

Europe,  In  1063  she  fought  at  Palermo,  returning  laden 
with  booty.  It  was  then,  after  much  discussion  in  the  Senate,* 
sending  an  embassy  to  the  Pope  and  another  to  "  R^ 
Henrico  di  Germania,"  that  she  decided  to  employ  this  spoil 
in  building  the  Duomo,  in  the  place  where  the  old  Church  of 
S.  Reparata  stood,  and  more  anciently  the  Baths  of  Hadrian, 
the  Emperor.  The  temple,  Tronci  tells  us,^  was  dedicated  to 
the  Magnificent  Queen  of  the  Universe,  Mary,  ever  Virgin, 
most  worthy  Mother  of  God,  Advocate  of  sinners.  It  was 
begun  in  1064,  and  many  years,  as  Tronci  says,  were  consumed 
in  the  building  of  it'  The  pillars — and  there  are  many — 
were  brought  by  the  Pisans  from  Africa,  from  Egypt, 
from  Jerusalem,  from  Sardinia,  and  other  far  lands. 

At  this  time  Pisa  was  divided  into  four  parts,  called 
Quartieri.  The  first  was  called  Ponte,  the  ensign  of  which 
was  a  rosy  Gonfalon ;  the  second,  di  Mezzo,  which  had 
the  standard  with  seven  yellow  stripes  on  a  red  field ;  the 
third,  Foriporta,  which  had  a  white  gate  in  a  rosy  field ;  and 
the  fourth,  Chinsica  with  a  white  cross  in  a  red  field.* 

Nor  was  the  Duomo  the  only  building  that  the  Pisans 
undertook  about  this  time.  Eight  years  later,  the  Church  of 
S.  Pietro  in  Vincoli,  called  to-day  S.  Pierino,  was  built  on 
a  spot  where  of  old  "there  was  a  temple  of  the  Gentiles" 

*  Tronci,  Annali  Pisani,  Livorno,  1682,  p.  21.  -  Ibid.  p.  22. 

'  Muratori  (Annali  ad  ann.)  says  Pope  Alexander  visited  in  this  year 
S.  Martino  the  Duomo  of  Lucca.  Ad  ann.  11 18  he  suggests  1092  for  the 
foundation  of  the  Duomo  of  Pisa. 

*  Thus  Tronci ;  but  Volpe,  Sttidi  sulk  Istiiuzioni  Comunali  a  Pisa, 
p.  6,  tells  us  that  these  quarters  did  not  exist  till  much  later, — till  after 
1 164,  when  the  system  of  division  by  porte  e  base  was  abandoned  for 
division  by  quartieri.  Tronci,  later,  says  that  the  city  was  unwalled  (p. 
38).  But  even  in  the  eleventh  century  Pisa  was  a  walled  city  ;  the  first 
walls  included  only  the  Quartiere  di  Mezzo ;  and  in  those  days  the  city 
proper,  the  walled  part,  was  called  "  Populus  Pisanus,"  while  the  suburbs 
were  called  Cinthicanus,  Foriportensis,  and  de  Burgis.  Cf.  Arch.  St.  It. 
iii.  vol.  VIII.  p.  5.  Muratori,  Disertazioni,  30,  "  De  Mercat,"  says  that 
in  the  tenth  century  a  part  of  the  city  was  called  Kinzic  ;  cf.  Fanucci, 
St.  dei  Tre  celebri  Popoli  (Maritt.  I.  96).  Kinzic  is  Arabic,  and  means 
magazzinaggi. 

6 


82     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

dedicated  to  Apollo ;  that,  when  the  Pisans  received  the  faith 
of  Jesus  Christ,  they  gave  to  St.  Peter,  the  Prince  of  the 
Apostles.  This  church  appears  to  have  been  consecrated  by 
the  great  Archbishop  Peter  on  30th  August  1119. 

These  two  churches,  and  especially  the  Duomo,  still  perhaps 
the  most  wonderful  church  in  Italy,  prove  the  greatness  of 
the  civilisation  of  Pisa  at  this  time.  She  was  then  a  self- 
governed  city,  owing  allegiance,  it  is  true,  to  the  Marquisate 
of  Tuscany,  but  with  consuls  of  her  own.  Since  she  was  so 
warlike,  the  nobles  naturally  had  a  large  part  in  her  affairs. 
In  the  Crusade  of  1099  the  Pisans  were  late,  as  the  Genoese 
never  ceased  to  remind  them, — to  come  late,  in  Genoa,  being 
spoken  of  as  "  Come  I'ajuto  di  Pisa " ;  and,  indeed,  like  the 
Genoese,  the  Pisans  thought  as  much  of  their  own 
commercial  advantage  in  these  Holy  Wars  as  of  the  Tomb  of 
Jesus.  In  1 1 00  they  returned  from  Jerusalem,  their  merchants 
having  gained,  una  loggia,  una  contrada,  un  fondaco  e  una 
chiesa  for  their  nation  in  Constantinople,  with  many  other 
fiscal  benefits.  Nor  were  they  forgetful  of  their  Duomo,  for 
they  came  home  with  much  spoil,  bringing  the  bodies  of  the 
Saints  Nicodemus  the  Prince  of  the  Pharisees,  Gamaliel  the 
master  of  St.  Paul,  and  Abibone,  one  of  the  seventy-two 
disciples  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.^ 

Encouraged  by  their  success,  not  long  afterwards,  they,  in 
their  invincible  confidence  and  force,  decided  to  undertake 
another  enterprise.  Urged  thereto  by  their  Archbishop 
Peter,  they  set  out,  partly  for  glory,  partly  in  the  hope  of  spoil, 
to  free  the  thousands  of  Christians  held  captive  by  the  Arabs 
in  the  Balearic  islands.  The  fleet  sailed  on  the  6th  August 
1 1 1 4,  the  Feast  of  S.  Sisto,  the  anniversary  of  other  victories. 
There  were,  it  seems,  some  three  hundred  ships  of  divers 
strength ;  and  every  sort  of  person,  old  and  young,  took  part  in 
this  adventure.  Going  astray,  they  first  landed  in  Catalonia, 
and  did  much  damage ;  then,  "  acknowledging  their  un- 
fortunate mistake,"  they  found  the  island,  where,  under 
*  Tronci,  op,  cit.  p.  38. 


PISA  83 

Archbishop  Peter  and  the  Pope's  gonfalone,  they  were  entirely 
successful.  They  released  the  captives,  and,  amid  the  immense 
spoil,  they  brought  away  the  son  of  the  Moorish  king,  whom 
later  they  baptized  in  Pisa  and  sent  back  to  the  Moors. 
The  Pisan  dead  were,  however,  very  many.  At  first  they 
thought  to  load  a  ship  with  the  slain  and  bring  them  home 
again ;  but  this  was  not  found  possible.  Sailing  at  last  for 
Marseilles,  they  buried  them  there  in  the  Badia  di  S.  Vittore, 
later  bringing  the  monks  to  Pisa. 

Now,  while  the  glory  of  Pisa  shone  thus  upon  the  waters 
far  away,  the  Lucchesi  thought  to  seize  Pisa  herself,  deprived 
of  her  manhood.  But  the  Florentines,  who  at  this  time  were 
friends  with  Pisa,  since  their  commerce  depended  upon  the 
Porto  Pisano,  sent  a  company  to  guard  the  city,  encamping 
some  two  miles  off;  for  since  so  much  loot  lay  to  hand,  to 
wit,  Pisa  herself,  the  Florentine  captains  feared  lest  they  might 
not  be  able  to  hold  their  men.  And,  indeed,  one  of  their 
number  entered  the  city  intent  on  the  spoil,  but  was  taken, 
and  they  judged  him  worthy  only  of  death.  But  the  Pisans, 
not  to  be  outdone  in  honour,  refused  to  allow  him  to  be 
executed  in  their  territory;  then  the  Florentines  bought  a 
plot  of  ground  near  the  camp,  and  killed  him  there.  When 
the  fleet  returned  and  heard  this,  they  determined  to  send 
Florence  a  present  to  show  their  gratitude.  Now,  among  the 
spoil  were  some  bronze  gates  and  two  rosy  pillars  of  porphyry, 
very  precious.  Then  they  besought  the  Florentines  to  choose 
one  of  these,  the  gates  or  the  pillars,  as  a  gift.  And  Florence 
chose  the  pillars,  which  stand  to-day  beside  the  eastern  gate 
of  the  Baptistery  in  that  city.  But  on  the  way  to  Florence 
they  encountered  the  Mugnone  in  flood,  and  were  thrown 
down  and  broken  there.  Hence  the  Florentines,  that 
scornful  and  suspicious  folk,  swore  that  the  Pisans  had 
cracked  their  gifts  themselves  with  fire  before  sending  them, 
that  Florence  might  not  possess  things  so  fair. 

Other  jealousies,  too,  arose  out  of  the  success  of  Pisa, 
though    indirectly.      For    the   Genoese,  never   content   that 


84     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

she  should  have  the  overlordship  of  Sardinia,  were  still 
more  disturbed  when  Pope  Gelasius  ii.,  that  Pisan,  gave 
Corsica  to  Pisa,  so  that  about  1125^  they  made  war  on  her. 
The  war  lasted  many  years,  till  Innocent  11.,  being  Pope  and 
come  to  Pisa,  made  peace,  giving  the  Genoese  certain  rights 
in  Corsica.  About  this  time  S.  Bernard  was  in  Pisa,  where 
in  1 1 34  Innocent  11.  held  a  General  Council;  not  for  long, 
however,  for  in  the  same  year  he  set  out  for  Milan  to 
reconcile  that  Church  with  Rome. 

Her  quarrel  with  Genoa  was  scarcely  finished  when  Pisa 
found  herself  at  war  with  the  Normans  in  Southern  Italy, 
defending  heroically  the  city  of  Naples  and  utterly  destroying 
Amalfi,  the  wonderful  republic  of  the  South. ^  Certainly  the 
might  of  Pisa  was  great ;  her  supremacy  was  unquestionable 
from  Lerici  to  Piombino,  but  behind  her  hills  Lucca  was  on 
watch,  not  far  away  Florence  her  friend  as  yet,  held  the  valley 
of  the  Arno,  while  Genoa  on  the  sea  dogged  her  steps  between 
the  continents.  Thus  Pisa  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  twelfth 
century  the  strongest  and  most  warlike  city  in  Tuscany,  full 
of  ambition  and  the  love  of  beauty  and  glory.  For  it  was  now 
in  1 152  that  she  began  to  build  the  Baptistery,  and  in  1174 
the  famous  Campanile,  a  group  of  buildings  with  the  Duomo 
unrivalled  in  the  world. 

Meanwhile  the  Great  Countess  of  Tuscany  had  died  in 
1 1 1 5  ;  more  and  more  Italy  became  divided  against  itself,  and 
by  the  end  of  the  century  Guelph  and  Ghibelline,  commune 
and  noble,  were  tearing  her  in  pieces.  Tuscany,  really  little 
more  than  a  group  of  communes  devoted  to  trade  with  the 
great  feudatories  ever  in  the  offing,  without  any  real  unity, 
slowly  became  the  stronghold  of  the  Guelphs.  Only  Pisa,' 
glorying  in  the  strength  of  the  sea  and  the  splendour  of  war, 
was  Ghibelline,  with  Siena  on  her  sunny  hills.  Now,  having 
won   Sardinia  for  herself,  her  nobles  there  established  were, 

'  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  60. 

'  It  was  from  Amalfi  that  they  brought  home  the  Pandects. 

'  The  first  Podest.i  of  the  city  was  Conte  Tedicis  della  Gherardcsca. 


PISA  85 

as  was  their  manner  everywhere,  continually  at  feud.  The 
Church,  thinking  to  make  Pisan  sovereignty  less  secure, 
supported  the  weaker.  Already  Innocent  iii.  had,  follow- 
ing this  plan,  called  on  the  Pisans  to  withdraw  their  claim 
to  the  island.  And  it  was  a  Pisan  noble,  Visconti, 
who,  marrying  into  one  of  the  island  families  related  to 
Gregory  ix,  recognised  the  Papal  suzerainty.  Thus  this 
family  in  Pisa  became  Guelph.  But  the  other  nobles,  among 
whom  was  the  Gherardesca  family,  threw  their  weight  on  the 
other  side,  and  so  Pisa,  who  had  ever  leaned  that  way,  became 
staunchly  Ghibelline.^ 

The  quarrel  with  Florence  was  certain  sooner  or  later,  for 
Florence  was  growing  in  strength  and  riches ;  she  would  not 
for  ever  be  content  to  let  Pisa  hold  her  sea-gate,  taking  toll 
of  all  that  passed  in  and  out.  It  was  in  1222  that  the  first 
war  broke  out  with  the  White  Lily.  Any  excuse  was  good 
enough ;  the  bone  of  contention  appears  to  have  been  a  lap- 
dog  belonging  to  one  of  the  Ambassadors.^  Pisa  was  beaten. 
In  1259,  nevertheless,  she  turned  on  the  Genoese  and  drove 
them  down  the  seas.  But  the  death  of  Frederic  in  1250  was 
the  true  end  of  the  Ghibelline  cause  in  Italy. 

What  then  did  Pisa  look  like  in  these  the  days  of  her  great 
power  and  prosperity  ?  She  was  a  city,  we  may  think,  of  narrow 
shadowy  streets  like  the  Via  delle  Belle  Torre,  full  of  refuse 
and  garbage  too,  for  then  as  now  in  the  remoter  places  the 
household  slops  were  simply  hurled  out  of  the  windows  with 
a  mere  guarda  !  called  from  an  upper  window.  And  to  the 
horror  of  less  fortunate  cities,  these  streets  were  full  of 
"  Pagans,  Turks,  Libyans,  Parthians,  and  foul  Chaldeans,  with 
their  incense,  pearls,  and  jewels."  Yet  though  so  good  a 
Guelph  as  Donizo,  the  biographer  of  the  great  Countess,  can 

'  Pisa  was  perliaps  influenced,  too,  in  her  choice  of  the  Ghibelline  side 
by  the  interference  of  the  Papacy  against  her  in  Corsica.  While,  if  Pisa 
was  Ghibelline,  Lucca,  of  course,  was  Guelph. 

'  Cf.  G.  Villani,  o/>,  cit.  lib.  vii.  cap.  ii.,  "  La  cagione  perch6  si  comincio 
la  gucrra  da'  I'iorentini  a'  Pisani,"  and  N'illari,  History  of  Florence  (Eng. 
ed.  1902),  p.  176. 


86     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

express  his  horror  of  these  "  Gentiles,"  Genoa,  too,  must  have 
been  in  much  the  same  case ;  but  then  Genoa  was  Guelph,  and 
Pisa  Ghibelline.  Yet  then,  as  to-day  in  that  quiet  far  corner 
of  the  city,  in  a  meadow  sprinkled  with  daisies,  the  great  white 
Duomo  stood  a  silent  witness  to  the  splendour  of  the  noblest 
republic  in  Tuscany. 

But  her  day  was  too  soon  over.  In  1254,  Florence  and 
Lucca  met  and  defeated  her.  The  Guelphs  had  won.  In 
Pisa  we  find  the  government  reformed,  elders  appointed,  a 
senate,  a  great  council,  and  Podestk,  a  Captain  of  the 
People.  It  seemed  as  though  Pisa  herself  was  about  to 
become  Guelph,  or  at  any  rate  to  fling  out  her  nobles.  But 
in  many  a  distant  colony  the  nobles  ruled,  undisturbed  by 
the  disaster  at  home.  And  then,  almost  before  she  had 
set  her  house  in  order,  the  splendid  victory  of  Monteaperto 
threw  the  Guelphs  into  confusion,  and  the  banners  of  Pisa 
once  more  flew  wide  and  fair.  But  the  fatal  cause  of 
the  Empire  was  doomed ;  Manfred  fell  at  Benevento,  and 
Corradino  was  defeated  at  Tagliacozzo  by  Charles  of  Anjou, 
who,  not  content  with  victory,  expelled  the  Pisan  merchants 
from  his  ports.     There  was  left  to  her  the  sea. 

Now  Ugolino  della  Gherardesca,  of  the  great  family  which  had 
been  especially  enraged  by  the  conduct  of  Visconti,  married  his 
sister  to  one  of  that  family  reigning  at  Gallura  in  Sardinia. 
This  man,  the  judge  of  Gallura,  as  he  was  called,  had  come 
to  live  in  Pisa.  The  Pisans  looked  with  much  suspicion  on 
this  alliance,  and  exiled  first  the  Visconti  and  later  Ugolino 
himself,  with  all  the  other  Guelphs.  Ugolino  went  to  Lucca, 
and  with  her  help  in  1276  overcame  his  native  city  and  forced 
her  to  receive  again  the  exiles.  Then  the  merchandise  of 
Florence  passed  freely  through  her  port,  Lucca  regained  her 
fortresses,  and  Pisa  herself  fell  into  the  possession  of  Ugolino. 

Nevertheless,  without  a  thought  of  fear,  looking  ever  sea- 
ward, she  awaited  the  Genoese  attack,  certain  that  it  would 
come,  since  she  was  divided  within  her  gates.  It  was  to 
be  a  fight  to  the  death.     During  the  year  1282  the  Genoese 


PISA  Zy 

were  driven  back  from  the  mouth  of  the  Amo,  the  Pisans 
were  driven  from  Genoa,  and  scattered  and  spoiled  by  a 
storm.  These  were  but  skirmishes ;  the  fight  was  yet  to 
come.  In  Genoa  they  built  a  hundred  and  fifty  ships  of  war ; 
the  Pisans,  too,  were  straining  every  nerve.  Then  came  a 
running  fight  off  Sardinia,  in  which  the  Pisans  had  the  worse 
of  it,  losing  eight  galleys  and  fifteen  hundred  men.  Yet  they 
were  not  disheartened.  They  made  Alberto  Morosini,  a 
Venetian,  their  Podestk,  and  with  him  as  Admirals  were 
Count  Ugolino  della  Gherardesca  and  Andreotto  Saracini. 
When  the  treasury  was  empty  the  nobles  gave  their  fortunes 
for  the  public  cause.  We  hear  of  one  family  giving  eleven 
ships  of  war,  others  gave  six,  others  less,  as  they  were  able.  At 
midsummer  1 284  more  than,'a  hundred  galleys  sailed  to  Genoa, 
and  in  scorn  shot  arrows  of  silver  into  the  great  harbour.  But 
the  Genoese  were  not  yet  prepared.  They  were  ready  a  few 
days  later,  however,  when  the  watchers  by  Arno  "  descried  a 
hundred  and  seven  sail "  making  for  the  Porto.  Then  Pisa 
thrust  forth  her  ships.  With  songs  and  with  thanksgiving  the 
Archbishop  Ubaldino,  at  the  head  of  all  the  clergy  of  the  city, 
flung  the  Pisan  standard  out  on  the  wind.  It  was  night  when 
the  fleet  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  offing.  In  that  night  there 
came  to  the  Genoese  thirty  ships  by  way  of  reinforcement 
unknown  to  the  Pisans.  These  they  hid  behind  the  island 
of  Meloria.  At  dawn  the  battle  broke.  In  many  squadrons 
the  ships  flung  themselves  on  one  another,  and  for  long  the 
victory  hung  in  the  balance.  The  Pisans  had  already 
grappled  for  boarding,  the  battle  was  yet  to  win,  when  the 
Genoese  reinforcements  sailed  out  from  the  island  straight 
for  the  Pisan  Admirals.  The  battle  was  over.  Flight — it 
was  all  that  was  left  for  Pisa.  Ugolino  himself  was  said  to 
have  given  the  signal. 

There  fell  that  day  five  thousand  Pisans,  with  eleven 
thousand  captured,  and  twenty-eight  galleys  lost  to  Genoa. 
There  was  no  family  in  Pisa  but  mourned  its  dead :  for 
six   months  on   every  side   nothing   was  heard  but  lamenta- 


88     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

tions  and  mourning.  If  you  would  see  Pisa,  it  was  said,  you 
must  go  to  Genoa. 

Pisa  had  lost  the  sea.  In  Tuscany  she  stood  with  Arezzo 
facing  the  Guelph  League.  She  elected  Ugolino  her  Captain- 
General.^  A  man  of  the  greatest  force  and  ability,  he  was  am- 
bitious rather  for  himself  than  for  Pisa.  Having  many  Guelph 
friends,  his  business  was  to  beat  Genoa  and  the  Guelph  League. 
He  succeeded  in  part.  He  bribed  Florence  with  certain  strong- 
holds to  leave  the  League,  and  he  expelled  the  Ghibellines 
from  Pisa.  Then  he  offered  Genoa  Castro  in  Sardinia  as 
ransom  for  the  Pisan  prisoners ;  but  they  sent  word  to  the 
Council  that  they  would  not  accept  their  freedom  at  the  price 
of  the  humiliation  of  their  city.  Such  were  the  Pisans. 
And,  indeed,  they  threatened  that  if  at  such  a  price  they 
were  set  free,  they  would  return  only  to  punish  those  who 
had  thought  such  treason.  Ugolino  for  his  part  cared  not.' 
He  proceeded  to  bribe  Lucca  with  other  strongholds.  In 
the  city  all  was  confusion.  Ugolino  was  turned  out  of  the 
Dictatorship,  he  became  Captain  of  the  People.  Not  for  long, 
however,  for  soon  he  contrived  to  make  himself  tyrant  again. 

Now  the  Genoese,  seeing  they  were  like  to  get  nothing 
out  of  their  prisoners  by  this,  were  anxious  for  a  money 
ransom.  But  Ugolino,  fearing  those  brave  men,  broke  the 
truce  with  Genoa,  urging  certain  pirates  of  Sardinia  to  attack 
the  Genoese ;  and,  in  order  to  make  sure  of  this,  while  he 
himself  went  to  his  castle  in  the  country,  he  arranged  with 
Ruggieri  dei  Ubaldini,  the  Archbishop,  to  expel  the  Guelphs, 
among  them  his  own  nephew,  from  Pisa.  The  plot  succeeded ; 
but  Pisa  desired  that  the  Archbishop  should  for  the  future 
divide  the  power  with  Ugolino.  To  this  Ugolino  would  not 
agree,  and  in  a  rage  he  slew  the  nephew  of  the  Archbishop. 

'  This  seems  to  give  the  lie  to  the  accusation  of  treachery,  which  said 
that  he  gave  the  signal  for  flight  at  Meloria ;  but  in  fact  it  does  not,  for 
Pisa  elected  Ugolino  for  reasons,  in  the  hope  of  conciliating  Florence ;  cf. 
Villari,  op.  cit.  p.  284. 

*  He  knew  them  to  be  Ghibellines. 


PISA  89 

Meanwhile,  Ugolino's  nephew,  Nino  Visconti,  was  plotting  with 
him  to  return.  This  came  to  the  ears  of  Ruggieri,  who  called 
the  Ghibellines  to  arms,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  capturing 
Ugolino  and  his  family,  after  days  of  fighting.  Well  had 
Marco  Lombardo,  that  "  wise  and  valiant  man  of  affairs,"  told 
him,  "  The  wrath  of  God  is  the  only  thing  lacking  to  you." 

"  Of  a  truth,"  says  Villani,  the  old  Florentine  Chronicler, 
— "  of  a  truth  the  wrath  of  God  soon  came  upon  him,  as  it 
pleased  God,  because  of  his  treacheries  and  crimes ;  for  when 
the  Archbishop  of  Pisa  and  his  followers  had  succeeded  in 
driving  out  Nino  and  his  party,  by  the  counsel  and  treachery 
of  Count  Ugolino  the  forces  of  the  Guelphs  were  diminished ; 
and  then  the  Archbishop  took  counsel  how  to  betray  Count 
Ugolino;  and  in  a  sudden  uproar  of  the  people  he  was 
attacked  and  assaulted  at  the  palace,  the  Archbishop  giving 
the  people  to  understand  that  he  had  betrayed  Pisa,  and 
given  up  their  fortresses  to  the  Florentines  and  the  Lucchesi ; 
and,  being  without  any  defence,  the  people  having  turned 
against  him,  he  surrendered  himself  prisoner ;  and  at  the  said 
assault  one  of  his  bastard  sons  and  one  of  his  grandsons  were 
slain,  and  Count  Ugolino  was  taken  and  two  of  his  sons  and 
three  grandsons,  his  son's  children,  and  they  were  put  in 
prison ;  and  his  household  and  followers,  the  Visconti  and 
Ubizinghi,  Guatini  and  all  the  other  Guelph  houses,  were  driven 
out  of  Pisa.  Thus  was  the  traitor  betrayed  by  the  traitor.  .  .  . 
In  the  said  year  1288,  in  the  said  month  of  March  .  .  .  the 
Pisans  chose  for  their  captain  Count  Guido  of  Montefeltro, 
giving  him  wide  jurisdiction  and  lordship ;  and  he  passed  the 
boundaries  of  Piedmont,  within  which  he  was  confined  by 
his  terms  of  surrender  to  the  Church,  and  came  to  Pisa ;  for 
which  thing  he  and  his  sons  and  family  and  all  the  common- 
wealth of  Pisa  were  excommunicated  by  the  Church  of  Rome, 
as  rebels  and  enemies  against  Holy  Church.  And  when  the 
said  Count  was  come  to  Pisa  .  .  .  the  Pisans,  which  had 
put  in  prison  Count  Ugolino  and  his  two  sons,  and  two  sons 
of  Count  Guelpho  his  son  ...  in  the  tower  on  the  Piazza 


90    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

degli  Anziani,  caused  the  door  of  the  said  tower  to  be  locked 
and  the  keys  thrown  into  Amo,  and  refused  to  the  said 
prisoners  any  food,  which  in  a  few  days  died  there  of  hunger. 
And  albeit  first  the  said  Count  demanded  with  cries  to  be 
shriven ;  yet  did  they  not  grant  him  a  friar  or  a  priest  to 
confess  him.  And  when  all  the  five  dead  bodies  were  taken 
out  of  the  tower,  they  were  buried  without  honour;  and 
thenceforward  the  said  prison  was  called  the  Tower  of  Hunger, 
and  will  be  always."  ^ 

Enough  of  Ugolino.  Count  Guido,  that  mystical,  fierce 
soul  from  Urbino,  seeing  danger  everywhere,  called  the  whole 
city  to  the  army.  Florence  had  allied  herself  with  Lucca  and 
Genoa.2  Count  Guido's  business  was  to  beat  them.  He  did 
it;*  so  that  by  the  Assumption  of  Our  Lady  in  1292  he  had 
won  back  again  nearly  all  the  lost  fortresses,  and  wrung  peace 
from  the  Guelph  League.  Nevertheless,  Pisa  was  compelled  to 
sacrifice  her  captain,  and  to  see  Genoa  established  in  Corsica 
and  in  part  of  Sardinia;  also  she  had  to  pay  160,000  lire 
to  Genoa  for  the  Pisan  captives,  and  in  Elba  to  admit 
Genoese  trade  free  of  tax. 

Some  idea  of  the  glory  of  Pisa  even  when  she  had  suffered 
so  much  may  be  had,  perhaps,  from  Tronci's  account  of  that 
Festival  of  the  Assumption  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  as  it  was 
kept  in  August  1293,  when  the  peace  had  been  signed. 

The  Anziani,  Tronci  tells  us,*  *'  were  used,  for  a  month 

'  It  was  also  called  la  muda.  It  seems  hardly  necessary  to  refer  the 
reader  to  Dante,  Inferno,  xxxiii.  1-90.  This  tower  (now  to  be  called  the 
Tower  of  Hunger)  was  the  mew  of  the  eagles.  For  even  as  the  Romans 
kept  wolves  on  the  Capitol,  so  the  Pisans  kept  eagles,  the  Florentines 
lions,  the  Sienese  a  wolf.  See  Villani,  bk.  vii.  128.  Heywood,  Palio  and 
Ponle,  p.  13,  note  2. 

'  Florence  here  means  the  League,  to  wit,  Prato,  Pistoja,  Siena  even, 
and  all  the  allies,  including  the  Guelphs  of  Romagna,  were  fighting  Arezzo 
under  Archb.  Uberti,  and  Pisa  under  Archb.  Ruggieri. 

*  Yet  in  1290  Genoa  seized  Porto  Pisano :  "  Furono  allora  disfatte  le 
torri  .  .  .  il  fanale  e  tutte." 

*  Tronci,  op.  cit.  269-271.  For  the  Palio, — the  name  of  the  race  and 
the  prize  of  victory,  a  piece  of  silk  not  too  much  unlike  the  banners  given  at 
a  modern  battle  of  Flowers, — see  Heywood,  Palio  and  Ponle,  1904,  p.  12. 


PISA  91 

before  the  Festa,  to  publish  it  in  the  following  manner. 
Twenty  horses,  covered  all  with  scarlet,  went  out  of  the  city 
bearing  twenty  youths  dressed  in  fanciful  and  rich  costumes. 
The  first  two  carried  two  banners,  one  of  the  Comunit^  the 
other  of  the  Popolo.  Two  others  carried  two  lances  of  silver 
washed  with  gold,  on  which  were  the  Imperial  eagles. 
Two  others  bore  on  their  fists  two  living  eagles  crowned 
with  gold.  The  rest  followed  in  a  company,  dressed  in 
most  rich  liveries.  There  came  after,  the  trumpeters  of 
the  Comunitk  with  the  silver  trumpets,  and  others  with 
fifes  and  wind  instruments  of  divers  loudness,  and  they 
proclaimed  the  Palii  which  were  to  be  won  on  land  and 
water. 

"  On  land,  the  first  prize  was  of  red  velvet  lined  with  fur, 
with  a  great  eagle  of  silver.  This  he  received  who  first 
reached  the  goal.  To  the  second  was  given  a  silken  stuff" 
of  the  value  of  thirty  gold  florins,  to  the  third  in  jest  was 
offered  a  pair  of  geese  and  a  bunch  of  garlic.  On  the  water 
the  race  was  rowed  in  little  galleys  and  brigantini.  He  who 
came  in  first  won  a  Bull  covered  with  scarlet,  and  fifty  scudi; 
the  second  a  piece  of  silken  stuff  with  thirty  gold  florins,  the 
third  got  only  geese  and  garlic. 

"  On  the  first  day  of  August  were  placed  on  the  towers  of 
the  city,  certainly  some  16,000  in  number,  three  banners  on 
each  of  them ;  one  with  the  Imperial  eagle,  another  of  the 
Commune,  and  the  third  of  the  People.  In  like  manner,  on 
the  cupola,  facade,  and  corners  of  the  Duomo,  on  S. 
Giovanni,  on  the  Campo  Santo  and  the  Campanile,  these 
banners  flew  not  only  on  the  top,  but  at  all  the  angles  of 
the  columns.  The  same  were  seen  on  all  the  churches  of 
the  city,  and  on  all  the  palaces,  the  Palazzo  Pubbhco,  the 
palace  of  the  Podestk,  the  Palazzo  del  Capitano  del  Con- 
servatore,  the  Corte  del  Consulate  di  Mare,  on  the  palaces 
of  the  Mercati  and  of  the  seven  Arti.  The  Contado  followed 
the  example  of  the  city ;  and  thus  it  continued  all  the 
month   of  August.     And   the   whole   people   of   every  sort 


92     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

made  great  rejoicing  and  feasting,  to  which  foreigners  were 
particularly  invited. 

"  At  the  first  Vespers  of  the  Festa,  the  Anziani  went  to  the 
Duomo  in  state :  and  before  them  walked  the  maidens 
dressed  in  new  liveries ;  and  after  came  the  trumpeters,  and 
the  Captain  with  his  company,  and  all  the  other  lesser 
magistrates.  When  they  were  come  to  the  Cathedral,  the 
Archbishop,  vested  a  Pontificale,  began  solemn  Vespers.  This 
ended,  a  youth  mounted  into  the  pulpit  and  chanted  a  prayer 
in  praise  of  jthe  Assumption  of  the  Most  Glorious  Virgin. 
Then  Matins  was  sung ;  and  that  finished,  the  procession  made 
its  way  round  about  the  church,  and  was  joined  by  all  the 
Companies  and  the  Regulars,  carrying  each  man  a  candle  of 
wax  of  half  a  pound  weight,  alight  in  his  hands.  The  Clergy 
followed  with  the  Canons  and  the  Archbishop  with  lighted 
candles  of  greater  weight ;  and  last  came  the  Anziani,  the 
Podestk,  the  Captain  and  other  Magistrates,  the  Representatives 
of  the  Arti,  and  all  the  People  with  lights  of  wax  in  their 
hands.  And  the  procession  being  over,  all  went  to  see  the 
illuminations,  the  bonfires,  and  the  festa,  through  the 
city. 

"  On  the  morning  of  the  Festa,  the  ceri  were  placed  on  the 
trabacchcy  that  were  more  than  sixty  in  number,  carried,  by 
boys  dressed  in  liveries,  with  much  pomp.  Immediately  after 
followed  the  Anziani,  the  Podestk,  and  the  Captain  of  the 
People  with  all  the  other  Magistrates  and  Officials  and  the 
people,  with  the  Company  of  Horse  richly  dressed  and  with  the 
Companies  of  Foot ;  and  a  little  after  came  all  the  arti,  carrying 
each  one  his  great  cero  all  painted,  and  accompanied  by  all 
the  wind  instruments.  It  was  a  thing  sweet  to  hear  and 
beautiful  to  see.  The  offering  made,  they  went  out  to  bring 
the  silver  girdle  ^  borne  with  great  pomp  on  a  carretta ;  and 

*  The  girdle  was  made  of  silver  and  jewels  and  silk  to  represent  the 
girdle  of  the  B.V'.M.  It  encircled  the  Duomo — a  most  splendid  and  unique 
thing,  only  possible,  I  think,  in  Pisa.  No  parsimonious  Florentine  could 
have  imagined  it. 


PISA  93 

there  assisted  all  the  clergy  in  procession  with  exquisite  music 
both  of  voices  and  of  instruments.  The  usual  ceremonies 
being  over,  they  encircled  the  Cathedral,  and  hung  the  girdle 
to  the  irons  that  were  set  round  about.  Yes,  it  was  this 
girdle  of  a  great  value  and  very  beautiful  that  was  spoken 
of  through  the  whole  world,  so  that  from  many  a  city  of  Italy 
people  came  in  haste  to  see  it ;  but  to-day  there  is  nothing  of 
it  left  save  a  small  particle."  ^ 

Misfortune  certainly  had  not  broken  the  spirit  of  Pisa.  And 
so  it  is  not  surprising  that,  though  she  dared  scarcely  fly  her 
flag  on  the  seas,  on  land  she  thought  to  hold  her  own.  No 
doubt  this  hope  was  strengthened  by  the  advent  in  131 2  of 
Henry  vii.  of  Luxembourg.  With  him  on  her  side  she  dreamed 
of  the  domination  of  Tuscany.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  She 
found  money  and  arms  in  his  cause  and  her  own.  She 
opened  a  new  war  with  the  Guelph  League  ;  she  suspended  her 
own  Government  and  made  him  lord  of  Pisa.  He  remained 
with  her  two  months,  and  then  on  a  fatal  day  in  1313  he 
died  there.  They  buried  him  sadly  in  the  Duomo.  The 
two  million  florins  she  had  expended  were  lost  for  ever. 
Frederick  of  Sicily,  Henry's  ally,  though  he  came  to  Pisa, 
refused  the  proferred  lordship,  as  did  Henry  of  Savoy ;  and 
at  last  Pisa  placed  herself  under  the  Imperial  Vicar  of  Genoa, 
for  that  city  also  had  been  delivered  by  her  nobles  into  the 
hands  of  Henry  vii. 

Uguccione  della  Faggiuola,  the  Imperial  Vicar  of  Genoa, 
remained,  as  Imperial  legate,  Podestk,  Captain  of  the  People, 
and  Elector,  bringing  with  him  one  thousand  German  horse. 
The  rest  of  the  army  of  Henry  returned  over  the  Alps. 
Pisa  thought  herself  on  the  verge  of  ruin ;  she  must  make 
terms  with  her  foes.  This  being  done,  there  appeared  to  be 
no  further  need  for  Uguccione,  whose  German  troops  were 
expensive,  and  whose  presence  did  but  anger  the  Guelphs. 
Uguccione  was  a  man  of  enormous  strength,  brave,  too,  and 
resolute,  swift  to  decide  an  issue,  wise  in  council,  but  a 
'  Now  in  the  Musco,  room  i.     See  page  119. 


94    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

barbarian.  What  had  he  to  do  with  peace.  His  business  was 
war,  as  he  very  soon  let  the  Pisans  know.  Nor  were  they  slow 
to  take  him  at  his  word.  Pisa  was  never  beaten.  Uguccione 
marched  through  the  streets  with  the  living  eagles  of  the 
Empire  borne  before  him.  Before  long  he  had  deprived  the 
Guelphs  of  power,  and  was  practically  tyrant  of  Pisa.  Every- 
thing now  seemed  to  depend  on  victory.  Lucca  scarcely  ten 
miles  away,  Guelph  by  tradition  and  hatred  of  Pisa,  was  in  an 
uproar.  Uguccione  saw  his  chance  and  took  it ;  he  flung 
himself  on  the  city  and  delivered  it  up  to  its  own  factions, 
while  the  Pisans  sacked  it.  Nor  did  they  spare  the  place. 
The  spoil  was  enormous  ;  among  the  rest,  a  large  sum  belong- 
ing to  the  Pope  fell  into  their  hands.  Florence  and  her  allies 
sprang  to  arms.  Uguccione  took  up  the  challenge,  burnt 
the  lands  of  Pistoja  and  San  Miniato  al  Tedesco,  ravaged 
the  vineyards  of  Volterra,  seized  the  fortresses  of  Val  di 
Nievole,  and  at  last  beseiged  Montecatini. 

It  was  now  that  the  Ghibellines  of  Lucca  with  Castruccio 
Castracani  joined  Uguccione.  They  met  the  army  of  Florence 
at  Montecatini.  Machiavelli  states  that  Uguccione  fell  ill,  and 
had  no  part  in  the  battle,  which  was  won  by  Castruccio. 
Villari,  however,  gives  the  glory  to  Uguccione. 

It  might  seem  that  Uguccione,  whether  ill  or  not  on  the 
day  of  battle,  was  jealous,  and  perhaps  afraid,  of  Castruccio. 
Certainly  he  plotted  against  him,  sending  his  son  Nerli  to 
Lucca  with  orders  to  trap  Castruccio  and  imprison  him ;  which 
was  done.  Nerli,  however,  wanted  resolution  to  kill  him  ;  and 
his  father  hearing  this,  set  out  from  Pisa  with  four  hundred 
horse  to  take  the  matter  in  hand.  The  Pisans,  who  were  by 
this  time  completely  enslaved  by  Uguccione,  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity to  rise.  Macchiavelli  tells  us  "  they  cut  his  Deputies' 
throats,  and  slew  all  his  Family.  Now,  that  he  might  be  sure 
they  were  in  earnest,  they  chose  the  Conte  de  Gherardesca, 
and  made  him  their  Governor."  When  Uguccione  got  to 
Lucca  he  found  the  city  in  an  uproar,  and  the  people  demand- 
ing the  release  of  Castruccio.     This  he  was   compelled  to 


PISA  95 

allow.  With  Castruccio  at  liberty,  Lucca  was  too  hot  for 
him,  and  he  fled  into  Lombardy  to  the  Lords  of  Scala, 
where,  no  long  time  after,  he  died.  Thus  befell  the  great 
victory  of  Montecatini.  Gherardesca  and  Castruccio  soon 
came  to  terms  with  the  Guelphs ;  and  all  that  Pisa  really 
seems  to  have  gained  by  the  war  was  that  she  was  compelled 
to  build  a  hospital  and  chapel  for  the  repose  of  the  souls  of 
the  dead  at  Montecatini.  This  chapel,  hidden  away  in  the 
Casa  dei  Trovatelli  at  the  top  of  Via  S.  Maria  in  Pisa,  became 
a  glorious  monument  of  the  victory  of  Pisa  over  Florence. 

But  the  freedom  of  Pisa  was  gone  for  ever;  others,  lords 
and  tyrants,  arose,  Castruccio  Castracani  and  the  rest,  yet 
she  was  still  at  bay.  On  the  2nd  October  1325  she  again 
defeated  Florence  at  Altopascio,  and  even  excluded  her 
from  the  port,  and,  in  1341,  when  Florence  had  bought 
Lucca  from  Mastino  della  Scala  for  250,000  florins,  she 
besieged  it  to  prevent  the  entry  of  the  Florentine  army  then 
aided  by  Milan,  Mantova,  and  Padova.  In  1 342,  the  Florentines 
having  failed  to  relieve  Lucca,  the  Pisans  entered  the  city.  The 
possession  of  Lucca  seemed  to  put  Pisa,  where  centuries  ago 
Luitprand  had  placed  her,  at  the  head  of  the  province  of 
Tuscany.  This  view,  which  certainly  she  herself  was  not 
slow  to  take,  was  confirmed  when  Volterra  and  Pistoja  placed 
themselves  under  her  protection  ;  yet,  as  ever,  her  greatest 
danger  was  the  discord  within  her  walls.  The  Republic 
was  weak,  nearly  a  million  and  a  half  of  florins  had  been 
spent  on  the  war,  and  many  tryants  were  her  allies ;  more- 
over, she  had  lent  troops  to  Milan.^  It  was  this  moment  of 
reaction  after  so  great  an  effort  that  Visconti  d'Oleggio  chose 
for  a  conspiracy  against  Gherardesca  the  Captain-General. 
It  is  true  the  plot  was  discovered,  the  traitors  exiled,  and 
Visconti  banished ;  but  the  mischief  was  done.  When 
Luchino  Visconti  heard  of  it  in  Milan,  he  imprisoned  the 
Pisan  troops  in  that  city  and  sent  Visconti  d'Oleggio  back 
with  two  thousand  men  to  seize  Pisa.  Thus  the  war  dragged 
'  Tronci,  op.  cit.  366. 


96     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

on ;  and  though  these  Milanese  were  destroyed  for  the  most 
part  by  malaria  in  the  Maremma,  still  Pisa  had  no  rest.  After 
Visconti  came  famine,  and  after  the  famine  the  Black  Death. 
Seventy  in  every  hundred  of  the  population  died,  Tronci  tells 
us,^  while  during  the  famine,  bread,  such  as  it  was,  had  to 
be  distributed  every  day  at  the  taverns.  Then  followed  a 
revolution  in  the  city.  Count  Raniero  of  the  Gherardesca 
house  had  succeeded  to  the  Captain-Generalship  of  Pisa  as 
though  it  were  his  right  by  birth.  This  brought  him  many 
enemies ;  and,  indeed,  the  city  was  in  uproar  for  some  years : 
for,  while  he  was  so  young,  Dino  della  Rocca  acted  for  him. 
Among  the  more  powerful  of  the  enemies  of  della  Rocca  was 
Andrea  Gambacorta,  whose  family  was  soon  to  enslave  the 
city.  Now  the  one  party  was  called  Bergolini,  for  they  had 
named  Raniero  Bergo  for  hate,  and  of  these  Gambacorta 
was  chief.  The  other  party  which  was  at  this  time  in  power, 
as  I  have  said,  was  named  Raspanti^  which  is  to  say  graspers, 
and  of  them  Dino  della  Rocca  was  head.  In  the  midst  of  this 
disputing  Raniero  died,  and  the  Raspanti  were  accused  of  having 
murdered  him,  among  others  by  Gambacorta.  Every  sort  of 
device  to  heal  these  wounds  was  resorted  to ;  marriages  and 
oaths  all  alike  failed.  The  city  blazed  with  their  arson  every 
night,  till  at  last  the  people  rose  and  expelling  the  Raspanti, 
chose  Andrea  Gambacorti  for  captain.  This  happened  in 
1348.  Seven  years  later,  Charles  iv,  on  his  way  to  Rome 
to  be  crowned,  came  to  the  city.  Now  the  Conte  di 
Montescudaio  was  known  to  Charles,  who  years  before  had 
ruled  in  Lucca ;  therefore  the  Raspanti,  of  when  Montescudaio 
was  one,  took  heart,  and  at  the  moment  when  Charles 
was  in  the  Duomo  receiving  the  homage  of  the  city,  they 
roused  the  people  assembled  in  the  Piazza,  shouting  for 
the  Emperor  and  Liberty ;  but  Charles  heeded  them  not. 
Nevertheless  Gambacorta,  to  save  himself,  thought  fit  to  give 
Charles  the  lordship  of  the  city  ;  but  the  people,  angered  at 
this,  demanded  their  liberty,  so  that  the  magistrates,  fearing 
'  See  Tronci,  op.  cit.  304. 


PISA  97 

for  peace,  reconciled  the  two  factions,  who  then  together 
demanded  of  Charles  his  new  lordship.  And  he  gave  it 
them  with  as  good  a  grace  as  he  could,  for  his  men  were  few. 
Then  again  he  heard  from  Lucca.  There,  too,  they  demanded 
liberty,  and  especially  from  the  dominion  of  Pisa,  and,  it 
is  said,  the  Lucchesi  in  France  gave  him  20,000  florins  for 
this.  But  Pisa  heard  of  it.  When  Charles  sent  his  troops 
to  occupy  Lucca,  the  Raspanti  saw  their  opportunity  and  rose. 
They  put  themselves  at  the  head  of  the  people,  who  slew  one 
hundred  and  fifty  of  Charles's  Germans,  and  held  Charles  himself 
a  prisoner  in  the  Duomo,  where  he  lodged  since  the  Comunale 
Palace  had  been  fired.  Montescudaio,  however,  secretly 
joined  Charles  with  his  men ;  he  burnt  the  houses  of  the 
Gambacorti  and  dispersed  the  mob.  Apparently  Lucca  was 
free.  But  Charles  had  reckoned  without  the  Pisan  garrison 
in  the  subject  city.  They  fired  their  beacons,  and  Pisa  saw 
the  blaze.  It  was  enough,  their  dominion  was  in  danger; 
there  were  no  longer  any  factions ;  Raspanti  and  Bergolini 
alike  stood  together  for  Pisa.  They  streamed  out  of  the  great 
Porta  a  Lucca  to  the  relief  of  their  own  people,  and  though 
six  thousand  armed  peasants  opposed  them,  they  won  to 
Lucca  and  took  it,  the  Pisani  still  holding  the  gates.  Then 
they  fired  the  city,  and  when  the  flames  closed  in  round 
S.  Michele  the  Lucchesi  surrendered.  Thus  they  served 
their  enemies.  But  Charles  had  his  revenge.  He  seized 
the  Gambacorti,  and  appointing  a  judge,  having  given  instruc- 
tions to  find  them  guilty,  tried  them  and  beheaded  seven  of 
them  in  Piazza  degli  Anziani,  in  spite  of  the  rage  of  Pisa. 
Then,  with  a  large  amount  of  treasure,  of  which  he  had 
spoiled  the  Pisans,  he  fled  back  with  his  barbarians  to  his 
Germany.  And  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  the  city  took 
Montescudaio  and  sent  him  into  exile,^  with  the  remaining 
Gambacorti  also.  So  Charles  left  Pisa  more  Ghibelline  than 
he  found  her. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Pisa  really  began  to  see  perhaps  her 
true  danger  from  Florence.     Certainly  she  did  everything  to 
'  They  imprisoned  hiim  in  Lucca. 

7 


98    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

prick  her  into  war.  But  Florence  was  already  victorious 
Her  answer  was  more  disastrous  than  any  battle ;  she  took 
her  trade  from  the  port  of  Pisa  to  the  Sienese  port  Telamone. 
Then  Florence  purchased  Volterra,  over  the  head  of  Pisa  as 
it  were ;  and  at  last,  careless  whether  it  pleased  the  Pisans  or 
no,  she  permitted  the  Gambacorti  to  make  raid  upon  Pisan 
territory,  and  allowed  Giovanni  di  Sano,  who  had  lately  been 
in  her  service,  to  seize  a  fortress  in  the  territory  of  Lucca. 
The  peace  was  broken.  On  the  brink  of  ruin,  ravaged  by 
plague,  Pisa  turned  to  confront  her  hard,  merciless  foe.  For 
months  Florence  ravaged  her  territory,  while  she,  too  weak  to 
strike  a  blow  in  her  own  honour,  could  but  hold  her  gates. 
Then  the  plague  left  her,  and  she  rose. 

Bamabo  Visconti  was  sending  her  help  for  150,000  florins.* 
The  English  were  on  the  way ;  already  over  the  mountains, 
Hawkwood  and  his  White  Company  were  coming  to  save  her ; 
meantime  she  tried  to  strike  for  herself.  Pietro  Farnese  of  the 
Florentines  laid  her  low,  taking  one  hundred  and  fifty  prisoners 
and  her  general.  The  English  tarried,  but  a  new  ally  was 
already  by  her  side.  The  Black  Death  which  had  brought 
down  her  pride,  now  fell  upon  the  enemy,  both  in  camp  and 
in  their  city  of  the  Lily :  and  then  the  English  were  come.  On 
the  ist  of  February  1364,  Hawkwood,  with  a  thousand  horse 
and  two  thousand  foot,  drove  the  Florentines  through  the  Val 
di  Nievole ;  he  harried  them  above  Vinci  and  chased  them 
through  Serravalle,  crushed  them  at  Castel  di  Montale,  and 
scattered  them  in  the  valley  of  Amo.  They  found  their  city  at 
last,  as  foxes  find  their  holes,  and  went  to  earth.  There  Pisa 
halted.  Before  the  gates  of  Pisa  the  Florentines  for  years 
had  struck  money:  so  the  Pisans  did  before  Florence.  Nor 
was  this  all.  Halting  there  three  days,  says  the  chronicle,* 
"  they  caused  three  palii  to  be  run  well-nigh  to  the  gates  of 
Florence.  One  was  on  horseback,  another  was  on  foot, 
and  the  third  was  run  by  loose  women  {le  feminine  mundane)  \ 

'  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  404. 

•  Cronaca  Sanese  in  Muratori,  xv.  177,  quoted  in  Ileywood,  Palio  and 
Ponte,  p.  22. 


PISA  99 

and  they  caused  newly- made  priests  to  sing  Mass  there,  and 
they  coined  money  of  divers  kinds  of  gold  and  of  silver ;  and 
on  one  side  thereof  was  Our  Lady,  with  Her  Son  in  Her  arms  ; 
on  the  other  side  was  the  Eagle,  with  the  Lion  beneath  its 
feet.  .  .  .  Thereafter  for  further  dispite  they  set  up  a  pair 
of  gallows  over  against  the  gate  of  Florence,  and  hanged 
thereon  three  asses." 

Florence  refused  to  submit.  Other  Free  Companies  such 
as  Hawkwood's  joined  in  the  war.  The  Florentines  hired  that 
of  the  Star.  But  Hawkwood  was  not  to  be  denied.  He 
marched  up  Amo,  devastating  the  country,  and  at  last 
deigned  to  return  to  Pisa  by  Cortona  and  Siena. 

Then  Florence  did  what  might  have  been  expected.  She 
bribed  Baumgarten,  who  with  his  Germans  had  fought  since 
the  rout  with  Hawkwood.  They  met  at  the  Borgo  di  Cascina 
on  28th  July.  Hawkwood  was  caught  napping,  and  Pisa  in 
her  turn  was  humbled.  The  Florentines  returned  with  two 
thousand  prisoners,  having  slain  a  thousand  men.  They  took 
with  them  "forty-two  wagons  full  of  prisoners,  all  packed 
together  *  like  melons,'  with  a  dead  eagle  tied  by  the  neck 
and  dragging  along  the  ground."^  Such  was  war  in  Italy 
in  the  fourteenth  century. 

Then  followed  the  Doge  Agnello :  the  greatness  of  Pisa 
was  past 

It  had  ever  been  the  plan  of  Milan  to  weaken  Florence  by 
aiding  Pisa,  and  to  weaken  Pisa  by  this  continual  war,  for  it 
was  the  Visconti's  dream  to  carry  their  dominion  into 
Tuscany.  Now  at  this  time,  amid  all  these  disasters,  the 
Pisan  ambassador  at  Milan  was  a  certain  Giovanni  dell' 
Agnello,  a  merchant,  ambitious  but  without  honour.  This 
plebeian  readily  lent  himself  to  the  Visconti  to  betray  the 
city,  if  thereby  he  might  win  power;  and  this  Visconti 
promised  him,  for,  said  he,  "  if  I  win  Pisa,  you  shall  be  my 
lieutenant,  and  all  the  world  will  take  you  even  for  my  ally." 

Agnello  went  back  to  Pisa  full  of  this  dream  :  *  and  at  the 
first  opportunity  suggested  that  Visconti  would  be  flattered 

*  Heywood,  Polio  and  Ponte^  p.  22.  ^  Tronci,  op.  cit.  412. 


lOO    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

if  a  Lord  were  to  be  elected  in  Pisa,  if  only  for  a  year  at  a 
time;  and  in  his  subtilty  he  proposed  Piero  d'  Albizzo,  in 
Vico,  a  very  much  respected  {di  gran  stima)  citizen,  as  Lord. 
But  Messer  Piero  replied  by  asking  to  be  sent  with  other 
citizens  to  Pescia  to  arrange  the  peace  with  Florence.  Then 
a  certain  Vanni  Botticella  applied  for  the  post ;  and  Agnello 
praised  him  for  his  patriotism,  but  asked  him  whether  he  had 
money  enough  to  be  Lord.  Certainly  Pisa  had  fallen.  By 
this  Agnello  was  suspected,  and  indeed  one  night  certain 
citizens  got  leave  to  search  his  house,  for  they  believed  him 
to  be  a  traitor.i  But  he  had  warning,  and  already  Hawkwood 
had  sold  himself,  for  it  was  his  business.  So,  when  those 
citizens  had  returned  disappointed,  for  they  found  Agnello 
abed,  he  arose  and  joined  his  bandits.  With  Hawkwood  he 
went  to  the  Palazzo  dei  Anziani,  bound  the  guard  and  had 
the  elders  summoned,  and  told  them  a  tale  of  how  the  Blessed 
Virgin  had  bidden  him  assume  the  lordship  of  the  city. 
Well,  he  had  his  way,  his  bandits  saw  to  that ;  so  the  Anziani 
agreed  and  swore  obedience.  Next  day  Pisa  acclaimed  her 
Doge. 

Agnello  remained  Doge,  or  Lord  as  he  preferred  to  be 
called,  for  four  years.  Then  Charles  iv  marched  back  over 
the  Alps  into  Italy.  Bought  off  and  thwarted  in  Lombardy, 
he  came  towards  Lucca,  which  the  Lucchesi  exiles  again 
offered  to  buy  from  him.  Agnello  was  terrified.  In  haste 
he  sent  to  Charles  offering  to  give  him  Lucca  if  he  were  made 
sure  in  Pisa.  Outside  the  walls  of  Lucca,  Charles  knighted 
this  astute  tradesman.  Agnello  ran  back  to  Pisa  and  con- 
ferred knighthood  on  his  nephews.  Then  he  built  a  platform 
and  awaited  the  Emperor.  His  end  was  in  keeping  with  his 
life.  As  he  stood  on  the  insecure  "  hustings  "  which  he  had 
built,  that  in  sight  of  all  the  people  Charles  might  declare  him 
Imperial  Vicar  of  Pisa,  the  platform  collapsed  and  Agnello's 

*  A  pleasing  story  of  how  these  citizens  found  Agnello's  house  in  dark- 
ness and  all  sleeping  within,  of  his  awakened  maid-servant  and  frightened 
wife,  is  told  in  Maragoni,  Cron.  di  Pisa.  See  Sismondi,  ed.  Boulting 
(1906).  p.  401. 


PISA  loi 

leg  was  broken.  Now,  whether  the  comic  spirit,  so  helpful  to 
justice,  be  strong  in  our  Pisans  still,  I  know  not,  but  on  learn- 
ing of  the  misfortune  of  their  Lord,  they  rose,  and,  without 
noticing  their  Imperial  Vicar,  appointed  Anziani  to  rule  by  the 
old  laws. 

Then  the  burghers  and  nobles — "Cittadini  amatori  della 
Patria,"  Tronci  calls  them — formed  the  Campagnia  di  S. 
Michele,  for  it  bore  on  its  gonfalon  St.  Michael  Archangel, 
and  the  black  eagle  of  the  Empire.  It  was  the  business  of 
this  company  to  restore  peace  and  unity  to  the  city.  The 
leaders  resolved  to  recall  the  exiles,  among  them  Pietro 
Gambacorta.  He  came,  and  the  city  greeted  him,  and  he 
swore  to  serve  the  Republic  and  to  forgive  his  enemies.  A 
riot  followed ;  the  Bergolini  armed  themselves  and  burnt  the 
Gambacorti  palaces.  But  Pietro  Gambacorta  called  to  the 
city,  which  had  risen  to  defend  itself  and  to  make  reprisals, 
saying,  "  I  have  pardoned  them — I,  whose  parents  they  slew. 
By  what  right  do  you  refuse  to  do  what  I  have  done  ? "  ^ 
The  Bergolini  took  the  government,  and  there  was  peace. 
Then  the  Campagnia  di  S.  Michele  broke  up. 

Not  for  long,  however,  could  there  be  peace  in  Pisa.  The 
Raspanti  still  held  one  of  the  gates ;  and  thinking  to  better 
themselves,  they  sent  an  embassy  to  Charles,  who  was  in 
Lucca,  asking  his  help.  He  imprisoned  the  embassy,  and  at 
once  sent  his  Germans  to  seize  the  city.  But  the  Pisans  heard 
of  it.  They  rang  the  great  bells  in  the  Campanile,  and  barri- 
caded the  gates  with  the  benches  and  stalls  in  the  Duomo, 
on  the  Baptistery  they  set  their  bowmen,  and  on  the  Cam- 
panile the  slingers.  Then  they  tore  up  the  streets,  and 
waited  to  give  death  for  death.  The  Germans,  however, 
were  easily  beaten  and  bought  off,  and  Pisa  again  returned 
to  her  internal  quarrels. 

Out  of  these  sprang,  in  1385,  Pietro  Gambacorta,  as  Captain 

of  the  people.     It  was  the  beginning  of  the  last  twenty  years 

of  Pisa's  life  as  an  independent  city.     She  now  stood  between 

Visconti  in  the  north  and  Florence  close  at  hand.     Florence 

*  See  Sismondi,  o/>,  cit.  p.  403, 


102    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

was  her  friend  against  Visconti  for  her  own  sake :  she  meant 
to  have  Pisa  herself.  Gambacorta  did  his  best.  With  infinite 
tact  he  kept  friends  with  both  cities.  Under  him  Pisa  seemed 
to  regain  something  of  her  old  confidence  and  prosperity. 
A  man  of  fine  courage,  simplicity,  and  passing  honest,  he 
was  incapable  of  suspecting  a  tried  friend  whom  he  had  bene- 
fited.    Yet  it  was  by  the  hand  of  such  an  one  he  fell. 

Jacopo  d'Appiano's  father  had  been  exiled  with  Gambacorta 
in  1348.  Like  many  another  Pisan  house  which  had  risen 
from  nothing,  Appiano  was  at  feud  with  certain  of  his  fellow- 
citizens,  among  them  the  Lanfranchi  family.  For  this  cause 
he  kept  a  guard  about  him.  Now  Gambacorta,  who  remem- 
bered his  father's  exile,  made  Appiano  permanent  "  Chancellor 
of  the  Republic " :  and  hoping  to  reconcile  the  Lanfranchi 
with  the  new  chancellor,  he  sent  for  Lanfranchi,  but  the 
bandits  of  Appiano  murdered  him  as  he  went  thither,  and 
then  joined  Appiano  in  his  house.  Gambacorta  ordered  his 
chancellor  to  deliver  them  up,  but  he  refused.  Then  the 
Bergolini  offered  Gambacorta  their  assistance,  but  he  refused 
it,  trusting  to  justice.  Appiano,  however,  at  the  head  of  the 
Raspanti,  marched  to  the  palace  of  Gambacorta.  The  city 
was  in  arms,  and  they  had  to  fight  their  way.  Arrived  before 
the  palace,  Gambacorta  ordering  his  men  not  to  shoot  his 
friend,  agreed  to  confer  with  Appiano.  So  he  went  out  of 
his  house,  and  as  Appiano  stretched  out  his  hand,  in  token, 
as  it  were,  of  friendship,  his  bandits  fell  upon  him  and 
slew  him.  A  fight  followed,  in  which  the  Bergolini  were 
beaten ;  then  Appiano  became  Captain  of  the  People.  In 
truth,  it  was  only  a  device  of  Visconti  for  seizing  the  city. 
Appiano  admitted  the  Milanese,  and  what  Agnello  had  failed 
to  do,  he  did,  for  he  ruled  as  the  creature  of  Gian  Galeazzo. 
But  there  is  no  honour  among  thieves.  Soon  Visconti,  hoping 
to  win  Pisa  all  for  himself,  plotted  against  Appiano.  The 
quarrel  went  on,  Appiano  fearing  to  make  treaty  with  Florence 
lest  he  should  fall,  and  fearing,  too,  to  decide  with  Visconti 
lest  he  should  be  murdered,  till  he  died,  and  his  son  became 
captain,  only  to  sell  Pisa  to  Visconti  for  200,000  florins,  with 


PISA  103 

Elba  also,  and  many  castles.^  Then  Gian  Galeazzo  died 
in  1404. 

Now  Florence  knew  that  in  the  confusion  which  followed 
the  death  of  the  great  Visconti,  Pisa  was  weak  and  almost 
without  defence,  so  without  hesitation  she  sent  an  army  to 
seize  the  city :  but  Pisa,  always  at  her  best  in  danger,  worked 
night  and  day,  nor  was  any  man  idle  in  building  fortifications. 
In  Genoa  the  Frenchman  Boucicault,  who  had  held  that  city, 
came  to  her  assistance,  for  the  last  thing  Genoa  or  Milan  de- 
sired was  to  see  Pisa  and  her  port  in  the  hands  of  Florence. 
Boucicault  imprisoned  all  the  Florentines  in  Genoa,  and  seized 
Livomo,  nor  would  he  agree  to  release  his  prisoners  till 
Florence  had  signed  a  four  years'  peace.  But  Pisa  soon 
wearied  of  this.  In  the  grip  of  Genoa,  fearing  Visconti, 
unable  to  save  herself,  she  revolted,  and  Boucicault  sold  her 
to  Florence,  for  he  had  to  defend  himself  in  Genoa.  It  was 
in  August  1405  that  Pisa  was  given  up  to  Florence,  but 
although  for  a  moment  she  then  held  the  city,  she  was  to 
fight  for  it  in  earnest  before  she  could  hold  it  for  good. 
As  yet  Florence  only  possessed  the  citadel,  and  by  a  ruse 
the  Pisans  managed  to  win  that  from  them :  then  they  sent 
to  Florence  to  negotiate.  They  offered  to  buy  their  freedom, 
but  Florence  was  obdurate.  She  was  determined  to  possess 
herself  of  Pisa ;  her  armies  were  ordered  to  advance. 

Pisa  was  ready.  At  that  moment  all  feuds  were  forgotten ; 
a  united  city  opposed  the  Florentines :  there  was  but  one 
way  to  take  it — by  famine.  And  it  was  thus  at  last,  on  9th 
October  1406,  Pisa  fell.  Preferring  to  die  rather  than  to 
surrender,  it  would  have  been  into  a  city  of  the  dead  that 
the  armies  of  Florence  would  have  marched,  but  for  the 
brutal  treachery  of  Giovanni  Gambacorta.  As  it  was,  it  was 
only  a  city  of  the  dying  that  Florence  occupied.  After  every 
kind  of  heroic  effort,  Giovanni  Gambacorta  sold  Pisa  when  she 
was  too  weak  to  fight,  save  against  a  declared  enemy,  for 
50,000  florins,  the  citizenship  of  Florence  and  Borgo  to  rule. 
He  opened  the  gates,  and  Florence  streamed  in.  There  was 
'  Cf.  Sismondi,  op.  cit.  p.  557. 


104    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

scarcely  a  crust  left  in  the  city  which  was  at  last  become  the 
vassal  of  Florence. 

Here,  truly,  the  chronicles  of  Pisa  end — in  the  horrid 
cruelty,  scorn,  and  disdain  so  characteristic  of  the  Florentine. 
Certainly  with  the  Medici  a  more  humane  government  was 
adopted,  so  that  in  1472  we  read  of  Lorenzo  Magnifico  re- 
storing the  University  to  something  of  its  old  splendour,  but 
nothing  he  could  do  was  able  to  extinguish  the  undying 
hatred  of  Pisa  for  those  who  had  stolen  away  her  liberty. 
In  1494  that  carnival  army  of  Charles  viii,  winding  through 
the  valleys  and  over  the  mountains,  seemed  to  offer  them 
a  hope  of  freedom.  They  welcomed  him  with  every  sort  of 
joy,  and  hurled  the  Marzocco  and  the  Gonfalon  of  Florence 
into  Arno,  all  to  no  purpose.  And  truly  without  hope, 
from  1479  to  1505,  they  bore  heroically  three  sieges  and 
flung  back  three  different  armies  of  Florence.  Soderini 
and  Macchiavelli  urged  on  the  war.  In  1509,  Macchiavelli, 
that  mysterious  great  man,  besieged  her  on  three  sides,  and 
at  last,  forced  by  hunger  and  famine,  Pisa  admitted  him  on 
the  8th  June,  It  was  her  last  fight  for  liberty.  But  she  had 
won  for  herself  the  respect  of  her  enemies.  A  more  humane 
and  moderate  policy  was  adopted  in  dealing  with  her.  Never- 
theless, as  in  1406,  so  now,  her  citizens  fled  away,  so  that 
there  was  scarcely  left  a  Pisan  in  Pisa  for  the  victor  to 
rule. 

Grand  Duke  Cosimo  seems  to  have  loved  her.  It  was 
there  he  founded  his  Order  of  the  Knights  of  St.  Stephen 
to  harry  the  pirates  in  the  Mediterranean.  Still  she  was  a 
power  on  the  sea,  though  in  the  service  of  another.  And 
though  dead,  she  yet  lived,  for  she  is  of  those  who  cannot 
die.  The  ever-glorious  name  of  Galileo  Galilei  crowns  her 
immortaUty.  Born  within  her  walls,  he  taught  at  her  Uni- 
versity, and  his  first  experiments  in  the  knowledge  of  the  law 
of  gravity  were  made  from  her  bell-tower,  while,  as  it  is  said, 
the  great  lamp  of  her  Duomo  taught  him  the  secret  of  the 
pendulum. 

Looking  on  her  to-day,  remembering  her  immortal  story. 


PISA  105 

one  thinks  only  of  the  beauty  that  is  from  of  old  secure  in 
silence  on  that  meadow  among  the  daisies  just  within  her 
walls. 

Ill 

It  is  with  a  peculiar  charm  and  sweetness  that  Pisa  offers 
herself  to  the  stranger,  who  maybe  between  two  trains  has 
not  much  time  to  give  her.  And  indeed  to  him  she  knows 
she  has  not  much  to  offer,  just  a  few  things  passing  strange 
or  beautiful,  that  for  him  are  spread  out  as  at  a  fair,  on  the 
grass  of  a  meadow  in  the  dust  and  the  sun.  But  to  such  an 
one  Pisa  can  never  be  more  than  a  vision,  vanished  as  soon 
as  seen,  in  the  heat  of  midday  or  the  shadow  of  evening. 

But  for  me,  of  all  the  cities  that  grow  among  the  flowers  in 
Tuscany,  it  is  Pisa  that  I  love  best.  She  is  full  of  the  sun ; 
she  has  the  gift  of  silence.  Her  story  is  splendid,  unfortu- 
nate, and  bitter,  and  moves  to  the  song  of  the  sea :  still  she 
keeps  her  old  ways  about  her,  the  life  of  to-day  has  not 
troubled  her  at  all.  In  her  palaces  the  great  mirrors  are  still 
filled  with  the  ghosts  of  the  eighteenth  century ;  on  her  Lung* 
Amo  you  may  almost  see  Byron  drive  by  to  mount  his  horse 
at  the  gate,  while  in  the  Pineta,  not  far  away,  Shelley  lies  at 
noonday  writing  verses  to  Miranda. 

It  is  on  the  Lung'  Amo,  curved  like  a  bow,  so  much  more 
lovely  than  any  Florentine  way,  that  what  little  world  is  left 
to  Pisa  lingers  yet.  Before  one  is  the  Ponte  di  Mezzo,  the 
most  ancient  bridge  of  the  city,  built  in  1660,  but  really  the 
representative  of  its  forerunners  that  here  bound  north  and 
south  together :  En  moles  olim  lapidea  vix  aetatem  ferrus 
nunc  mormorea  pulchrior  et  firmior  stat  simulato  Marte  virtutis 
verae  specimen  saepe  datura,  you  read  on  one  of  the  pillars  at 
the  northern  end.  For  indeed  the  first  bridge  seems  to  have 
been  of  wood,  partly  rebuilt  of  stone  after  the  great  victory  off 
the  coast  of  Sicily,  and  finished  in  1046.^  This  bridge,  called 
the  Ponte  Vecchio,  took  ten  years  to  build,  and  any  doubt  we 
might  have  as  to  whether  it  was  of  wood  or  stone  is  set  at 
'  Tronci,  op,  cit.  p.  18. 


io6    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

rest  by  Tronci,^  who  tells  us  that  in  1382,  "  Pietro  Gambacorta, 
together  with  the  Elders  and  the  Consiglio  dei  Cittadini, 
determined  to  rebuild  in  stone  the  bridge  of  wood  which 
passed  over  Arno  from  the  mouth  of  the  Strada  del  Borgo 
to  that  of  S.  Egidio,  for  the  greater  ornament  of  the  city, 
chiefly  because  there  were  many  shops  on  the  bridge  that 
impeded  the  view  of  the  beautiful  Lung'  Arno."  One  sees 
the  bridge  that  was  thus  built,  the  foundations  having  been 
laid  with  much  ceremony,  a  procession  and  a  sung  mass,  in 
a  seventeenth  century  print  in  the  Museo  Civico.^  There  is 
a  buttress  a  quarter  of  the  way  from  each  end,  on  which 
houses  were  still  standing.  Then  in  1635  this  bridge  was 
carried  away  by  a  flood.  A  new  bridge  was  immediately 
built,  only  to  be  destroyed  in  the  same  way  on  ist  January 
1644.  In  1660  the  present  Ponte  di  Mezzo  was  finished  by 
Francesco  Nave  of  Rome. 

It  was  on  these  bridges  that  the  great  Pisan  game  the 
Giuoco  del  Ponte  was  played,^  a  model  of  which  may  be 
found  in  the  Museo.  This  new  bridge,  at  any  rate,  does  not 
shut  out  the  view  of  the  beautiful  Lung'  Arno,  //  bello  di  Pisa, 
as  one  writer  calls  it.  Standing  there  you  may  see  the  yellow 
river,  curved  like  a  bow,  pass  through  the  beautiful  city, 
between  the  palaces  of  marble,  their  wrinkled  image  reflected 
in  the  stream,  till  it  is  lost  in  the  green  fields  on  its  way  to 
the  sea ;  while  on  the  other  side,  looking  eastward,  on  either 
side  the  river  are  the  palaces  of  Byron  and  Shelley,  just  before 
the  hideous  iron  bridge,  where  Arno  turns  suddenly  into  the 
city  from  the  plain  and  the  hills.  To  the  south  of  the  bridge 
is  the  Loggia  dei  Banchi,  and  farther  to  the  west,  on  the  Lung' 
Arno,  the  great  palace  of  the  Gambacorti  rises,  now  the 
Palazzo  del  Comune,  and  farther  still,  the  Madonna  della 
Spina,  a  little  Gothic  church  of  marble ;  while  if  you  pass  a 
little  way  westward,  the  Torre  Guelfa  comes  into  sight  at  the 
bend  of  the  river  among  the  ruins  of  the  old  arsenal. 

■  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  453.  *  The  print  is  dated  1634. 

•  For  all  things  concerning  this  game  and  the  Palio,  see  Hey  wood,  Palio 
and  Ponte. 


PISA  107 

It  is  of  course  to  the  wonderful  group  of  buildings  to  the 
north  of  the  city,  just  within  the  walls,  that  every  traveller  will 
first  make  his  way.  Passing  from  Ponte  di  Mezzo  down  the 
Lung'  Arno  Regio,  past  the  Palazzo  Agostini,  beautiful  in  its 
red  brick,  past  Palazzo  Lanfreducci  with  its  little  chain  and  en- 
igmatic motto,  "  Alia  Giornata,"  past  the  Grand  Ducal  Palace, 
you  turn  at  last  into  the  Via  S.  Maria,  a  beautiful  and  lovely 
street  that  winds  like  a  stream  full  of  shadows  to  the  Piazza 
del  Duomo.  On  your  right  is  the  Church  of  S.  Niccolk, 
founded  about  the  year  xooo  by  Ugo,  Marquis  of  Tuscany. 
It  seems  that  with  Otho  in  there  came  into  Italy  the  Marquis 
Hugh.  "  I  take  it,"  says  Villani,^  "  this  must  have  been  the 
Marquis  of  Brandenburg,  inasmuch  as  there  is  no  other 
marquisate  in  Germany.  His  sojourn  in  Italy,  and  especially 
in  our  city  of  Florence,  liked  him  so  well  that  he  caused  his 
wife  to  come  thither,  and  took  up  his  abode  in  Florence  as 
Vicar  of  Otho  the  Emperor.  It  came  to  pass  as  it  pleased 
God,  that  when  he  was  riding  to  the  chase  in  the  country  of 
Bonsollazzo,  he  lost  sight  of  all  his  followers  in  a  wood,  and 
came  out,  as  he  supposed,  at  a  workshop  where  iron  was  wont 
to  be  wrought.  Here  he  found  men  black  and  deformed,  who 
in  place  of  iron  seemed  to  be  tormenting  men  with  fire  and 
with  hammer,  and  he  asked  them  what  this  might  be :  and 
they  answered  and  said  that  these  were  damned  souls,  and 
that  to  similar  pains  was  condemned  the  soul  of  the  Marquis 
Hugh  by  reason  of  his  worldly  life,  unless  he  should  repent. 
With  great  fear  he  commended  himself  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 
and  when  the  vision  was  ended  he  remained  so  pricked  in 
spirit,  that  after  his  return  to  Florence  he  sold  all  his  patrimony 
in  Germany  and  commanded  that  seven  monasteries  should 
be  founded.  The  first  was  the  Badia  of  Florence,  to  the  honour 
of  St.  Mary ;  the  second,  that  of  BonsoUazzo,  where  he  beheld 
the  vision;  the  third  was  founded  at  Arezzo,  the  fourth  at 
Poggibonizzi,  the  fifth  at  the  Verruca  of  Pisa,  the  sixth  at 
the  city  of  Castello,  the  last  was  the  one  at  Settimo ;  and  all 

*  Villani,  op.  cit,  Bk.  iv.  2.    The  Badia,  like  that  of  Firenze,  seems  rather 
to  have  been  founded  by  Ugo's  mother,  Countess  Willa. 


I08     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

these  abbeys  he  richly  endowed,  and  lived  afterwards  with  his 
wife  in  holy  life,  and  had  no  son,  and  died  in  the  city  of 
Florence  on  St.  Thomas's  Day  in  the  year  of  Christ  1006,  and 
was  buried  with  great  honour  in  the  Badia  of  Florence. 
Tronci  ^  says,  that  beside  the  Badia  di  S.  Michele  di  Verruca 
outside  Pisa,  "  this  most  pious  Marquis "  founded  also  the 
Church  of  S.  Niccolri,  for  the  use  of  the  Monks  of  S. 
Michele  Fuori.  The  Church  of  S.  Niccolk  has  been  al- 
together restored.  The  Campanile,  however,  the  oldest  tower 
left  in  the  city,  is  strange  and  lovely.  It  has  been  given 
to  Niccolb  Pisano,  but  is  certainly  older  than  his  day, 
and,  resembling  as  it  does  the  tower  of  the  Badia  at 
Florence  and  of  S.  Frediano  at  Settimo,  seems  to  be  of 
the  same  date  as  the  church.  There  is  a  gallery  joining 
the  church  with  the  palace  of  the  Grand  Dukes,  to  which  it 
served  as  chapel. 

Coming  as  one  does  out  from  this  narrow  deserted  street 
of  S.  Maria  into  the  space  and  breadth  of  the  Piazza  del 
Duomo,  one  is  almost  blinded  by  the  sudden  light  and  glory 
of  the  sun  on  these  buildings,  that  seem  to  be  made  of  old 
ivory  intricately  carved  and  infinitely  noble.  Standing  there 
as  though  left  stranded  upon  some  shore  that  life  has  long 
deserted,  they  are  an  everlasting  witness  to  the  Latin 
genius,  symbols  as  it  were  of  what  has  had  to  be  given 
up  so  that  we  may  follow  life  at  the  heels  of  the  barbarian 
Teuton. 

It  was  in  1063,2  after  the  great  victory  at  Palermo,  that  the 
ships  of  the  Republic  returning  full  of  spoil,  "after  much 
discourse  made  in  the  Senate,"^  it  was  decided  at  last  to 
build   "  a  most  magnificent  temple "  to  S.   Maria  Assunta^ 

'  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  9. 

'  It  may  be  as  well  to  explain  here  that  the  Pisan  Calendar  differed  not 
only  from  our  own  but  from  that  of  other  cities  of  Tuscany.  The  Pisans 
reckoned  from  the  Incarnation.  The  year  began,  therefore,  on  25th  March  : 
so  did  the  Florentine  and  the  Sienese  year,  but  they  reckoned  from  a  year 
after  the  Incarnation.  The  Aretincs,  Pistoiese,  and  Corlonese  followed  the 
Pisjins. 

'  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  21. 


PISA  109 

for  it  was  about  the  time  of  her  Festa,  that  is  to  say,  the 
15th  August,  that  the  victory  had  been  won.  This  having 
been  decided  on,  the  Republic  sent  ambassadors  to  Rome  to 
the  Pope  and  to  King  Henry  of  Germany,  and  the  Pope 
sent  the  church  many  privileges,  and  the  King  a  royal  dowry. 
So  they  began  to  build  the  temple  where  stood  the  old 
Church  of  S.  Reparata,  and  more  anciently  the  Baths  of  the 
Emperor  Hadrian ;  and  they  brought  marble  from  Africa, 
Egypt,  Jerusalem,  Sardinia,  and  other  far  places  to  adorn  the 
church.  In  1065  we  read  that  the  Pope  received  under  his 
protection  the  Chapter  and  Canons  of  Pisa.  The  Cathedral 
was  finished  in  about  thirty  years,  and  was  consecrated  by 
Pope  Gelasius  11  in  11 18.  The  architects,  two  dim  names 
still  to  be  read  on  the  facade  ever  kissed  by  the  setting  sun, 
were  Rainaldus  and  Busketus.  They  built  in  that  Pisan  style 
which,  as  some  of  us  may  think,  was  never  equalled  till 
Bramante  and  his  disciples  dreamed  of  St.  Peter's  and  built 
the  little  church  at  Todi,  and  S.  Pietro  in  Montorio.  However 
this  may  be,  the  Duomo  of  Pisa,  the  first  modem  cathedral  of 
Italy,  was  to  be  the  pattern  of  many  a  church  built  later  in 
the  contado,  and  even  in  Lucca  and  Pistoja  and  the  country 
round  about.  It  was  a  style  at  once  splendid  and  devout, 
not  forgetful  of  the  Roman  Empire,  yet  with  new  thoughts 
concerning  it,  so  that  where  a  Roman  building  had  once  really 
stood,  now  a  Latin  Church  should  stand,  white  with  marble 
and  glistening  with  precious  stones.  It  is  strange  to  find  in 
this  far-away  piazza  the  great  buildings  of  the  city ;  and 
stranger  still,  when  we  remember  that  S.  Reparata,  the  church 
that  was  destroyed  to  make  room  for  the  Duomo,  was  called 
S.  Reparata  in  Palude,  in  the  swamp.  It  may  be  that  Pisa 
was  less  open  to  attack  on  this  side,  or  that  this  being  the 
highest  spot  near  the  city,  a  flood  was  less  to  be  feared.  But 
there  were  other  foes  beside  the  flood  and  the  enemy,  for  the 
church  was  damaged  by  fire  in  1595,  and  was  restored  in 
1604. 
The  Duomo  is  a  basilica  with  nave  and  double  aisles,^  with 
*  104  yards  long  by  35^  yards  wide. 


no    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

a  transept  flanked  with  aisles,  covered  by  a  dome  over  the 
crossing.  Built  all  of  white  marble,  that  has  faded  to  the  tone 
of  old  ivory,  it  is  ornamented  with  black  and  coloured  bands, 
and  stands  on  a  beautiful  marble  platform  in  the  grass  of  a 
meadow.  It  is,  however,  the  facade  that  is  the  most  splendid 
and  beautiful  part  of  the  church.  It  consists  of  seven  round 
arches ;  in  the  centre  and  in  each  alternate  arch  is  a  door  of 
bronze  made  by  Giovanni  da  Bologna  in  1602.  Above  these 
arches  is  the  first  tier  of  columns,  eighteen  in  number,  of 
various  coloured  marbles,  supporting  the  round  arches  of  the 
first  storey;  above,  the  roof  of  the  aisles  slopes  gradually 
inwards,  and  is  supported  again  by  a  tier  of  pillars  of  various 
marbles,  while  above  rise  two  other  tiers  supporting  the  roof 
of  the  nave.  On  the  corners  of  the  church  and  on  the 
comers  of  the  nave  are  figures  of  saints,  while  above  all,  on 
the  cusp  of  the  facade,  stands  Madonna  with  Her  Son  in  Her 
arms.  The  door  in  the  south  transept  is  by  Bonnanus,  whose 
great  doors  were  destroyed  in  1595. 

Within,  the  church  is  solemn  and  full  of  light.  Sixty-eight 
antique  columns,  the  spoil  of  war,  uphold  the  church,  while 
above  is  a  coffered  Renaissance  ceiling,  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  There  is  but  little  to  see  beside  the  church  itself, 
a  few  altar-pieces,  one  by  Andrea  del  Sarto  ;  a  few  tombs  ;  the 
bronze  lamp  of  Battista  Lorenzi,  which  is  said  to  have  suggested 
the  pendulum  to  Galileo,  and  that  is  all  in  the  nave.  The 
choir  screens,  work  of  the  Renaissance,  are  very  lovely,  while 
above  them  are  the  ambones,  from  which  on  a  Festa  the  Epistle 
and  Gospel  are  sung.  The  stalls  are  of  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  the  altar,  a  dreadful  over-decorated  work,  of  the 
year  1825.  Matteo  Civitali  of  Lucca  made  the  wooden  lectern 
behind  the  high  altar,  and  Giovanni  da  Bologna  forged  the 
crucifix,  while  Andrea  del  Sarto,  not  at  his  best,  painted  the 
Saints  Margaret  and  Catherine,  Peter  and  John,  to  the  right 
and  left  of  the  altar.  The  capital  of  the  porphyry  column 
here  is  by  Stagio  Stagi  of  Pietrasanta,  while  the  porphyry 
vase  is  a  prize  from  a  crusade.  The  mosaics  in  the  apsis 
are   much  restored,  but  they  are  the  only  kno\Mi  work  of 


PISA  HI 

Cimabue,^  and  are  consequently,  even  in  their  present  condi- 
tion, valuable  and  interesting.  The  most  beautiful  and  the 
most  interesting  work  of  art  in  the  Duomo  is  the  Madonna, 
carved  in  ivory  in  1300  by  Giovanni  Pisano,  in  the  sacristy. 
This  Madonna  is  a  most  important  link  in  the  history  of 
Italian  art;  it  seems  to  suggest  the  way  in  which  French 
influence  in  sculpture  came  into  Italy.  Such  work  as  this, 
by  some  French  master,  probably  came  not  infrequently  into 
Italian  hands ;  nor  was  its  advent  without  significance,  you 
may  find  its  influence  in  all  Giovanni's  work,  and  in  how 
much  of  that  which  came  later.  ^ 

It  is  but  a  step  across  that  green  meadow  to  the  Baptistery, 
that  like  a  casket  of  ivory  and  silver  stands  to  the  west  of  the 
Duomo.  It  was  begun  in  1 1 5  3  by  Diotisalvi,  but  the  work 
went  very  slowly  forward.  In  1164,  out  of  34,000  families 
in  Pisa  subject  to  taxes,  each  gave  a  gold  sequin  for  the 
continuation  of  the  work,  but  it  was  not  finished  altogether 
till  the  fourteenth  century.  There  are  four  doors ;  above 
them  on  the  east  and  north  are  sculptures  of  the  thirteenth 
century.^ 

Truly,  one  might  as  well  try  to  describe  the  face  of  one's 
angel  as  these  holy  places  of  Pisa,  which  are  catalogued  in 
every  guide-book  ever  written.  At  least  I  will  withhold  my 
hand  from  desecrating  further  that  which  is  still  so  lovely. 
Only,  if  you  would  hear  the  heavenly  choirs  before  death  has 
his  triumph  over  you,  go  by  night  into  the  Baptistery,  having 
bribed  some  choir-boy  to  sing  for  you,  and  you  shall  hear 
from  that  marvellous  roof  a  thousand  angels  singing  round  the 
feet  of  San  Raniero. 

Perhaps  the  loveliest  thing  here  is  the  great  octagonal  font 
of  various  marbles,  in  which   every  Pisan   child   has   been 


*  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  History  of  Painting  in  Italy ^  new  edition,  1903, 
vol.  i.  pp.  185,  186. 

*  There  is  a  miracle  picture,  S.  Maria  sotto  gli  Orcagni  in  the  Duomo. 
Mr.  Carmichael,  in  his  book,  In  Tuscany,  gives  a  full  account  of  this 
picture.     See  also  my  Italy  and  the  Italians,  pp.  1 17-120. 

*  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  op.  cit.  vol.  i.  p.  103. 


112    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

christened  since  1 1 5  7  ;  but  it  is  the  pulpit  of  Niccola  Pisano 
that  everyone  praises. 

Niccolb  Pisano  appears  to  have  been  bom  in  Apulia,  and  to 
have  come  to  Pisa  about  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
We  know  scarcely  anything  of  his  life.  The  earliest  record  in 
which  we  find  his  name  is  the  contract  of  1265,  in  which  he 
binds  himself  to  make  a  pulpit  for  the  Duomo  of  Siena.^ 
There  he  is  called  MagisterNiccolus  lapidumde  paroccia  ecclesie 
Sancti  Blasii  de  Ponte,  de  Pisis  quondam  Petri.  Another 
document  of  later  date  describes  him  as  Magister  Nichola 
Pietri  de  Apulia.  Coming  thus  to  Pisa  from  Apulia,  possibly 
after  many  wanderings,  in  about  1250,  his  childhood  had 
been  passed  not  among  the  Tuscan  hills,  but  in  Southern 
Italy  among  the  relics  of  the  Roman  world.  It  is  not  any 
sudden  revelation  of  Roman  splendour  he  receives  in  the 
Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  but  just  a  reminder,  as  it  were,  of  the 
things  of  his  childhood,  the  broken  statues  of  Rome  that 
littered  the  country  of  his  birth.  Thus  in  a  moment  this 
Southerner  transforms  the  rude  art  of  his  time  here  in 
Tuscany,  the  work  of  Bonanus,  for  instance,  the  carvings  of 
Biduinus,  and  the  bas-reliefs  at  San  Cassiano,'  with  the  faint 
memory  of  Rome  that  lingered  like  a  ghost  in  the  minds  of 
men,  that  already  had  risen  in  the  laws  and  government  of  the 
cities,  in  the  desire  of  men  here  in  Pisa,  for  instance,  for 
liberty,  and  that  was  soon  to  recreate  the  world.  If  the 
Roman  law  still  lived  as  tradition  and  custom  in  the  hearts  of 
men,  the  statues  of  the  gods  were  but  hiding  for  a  little  time 
in  Latin  earth.  It  was  Niccola  Pisano  who  first  brought  them 
forth. 

The  pulpit  which  he  made  for  Pisa — perhaps  his  earliest 
work — is  in  the  form  of  a  hexagon  resting  upon  nine  columns ; 
the  central  pillar  is  set  on  a  strange  group,  a  man,  a  griffin, 
and  animals ;  three  others  are  poised  on  the  backs  of  lions  ; 
while  three  are  set  on  simple  pediments  on  the  ground ;  and 
three  again  support  the  steps.     A  '*  trefoil  arch  "  connects  the 

'  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  op.  cit.  vol.  i.  p.  109. 
*  See  below,  p.  1 34. 


PISA  113 

six  chief  pillars,  on  each  of  which  stands  a  statue  of  a  Virtue. 
It  is  here  that  we  came  for  the  first  time  upon  a  figure  not  of 
the  Christian  world,  for  Fortitude  is  represented  as  Hercules 
with  a  lion's  cub  on  his  shoulder.  In  the  spandrels  of  the 
trefoils  are  the  four  Evangelists  and  six  Prophets.  Above  the 
Virtues  rise  pillars  clustered  in  threes,  framing  the  five  bas- 
reliefs  and  supporting  the  parapet  of  the  pulpit ;  and  it  is  here, 
by  these  the  most  beautiful  and  extraordinary  works  of  that 
age  in  Italy,  that  Niccola  Pisano  will  be  for  ever  remem- 
bered. 

Poor  in  composition  though  they  be,  they  are  full  of 
marvellous  energy,  a  Roman  dignity  and  weight.  It  is  anti- 
quity flowering  again  in  a  Christian  soil,  with  a  certain  new 
radiance  and  sweetness  about  it,  a  naivete  almost  ascetic, 
that  was  certainly  impossible  from  any  Roman  hand. 

On  the  far  side  you  may  see  the  Birth  of  Our  Lord,  where 
Mary  sits  in  the  midst,  enthroned,  unmoved,  with  all  the 
serenity  of  a  goddess,  while  in  another  part  the  angel  brings 
her  the  message  with  the  gesture  of  an  orator.  Consider,  then, 
those  horses'  heads  in  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  or  the 
high  priest  in  the  Presentation,  and  then  compare  them  with 
the  rude  work  of  Bonanno  on  the  south  transept  door  of  the 
Duomo ;  no  Pisan,  certainly  no  Tuscan,  could  have  carved 
them  thus  in  high  relief  with  the  very  splendour  of  old  Rome 
in  every  line.  And  in  the  Crucifixion  you  see  Christ  really 
for  the  first  time  as  a  God  reigning  from  the  cross ;  while 
Madonna,  fallen  at  last,  is  not  the  weeping  Mary  of  the 
Christians,  but  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi  who  has  lost  her 
elder  son.  In  the  Last  Judgment  it  is  a  splendid  God  you 
see  among  a  crowd  of  men  with  heads  like  the  busts  in  a 
Roman  gallery,  with  all  the  aloofness  and  dignity  of  those 
weary  emperors.  There  is  almost  nothing  here  of  any  natural 
life  observed  for  the  first  time,  and  but  little  of  the  Christian 
asceticism  so  marvellously  lovely  in  the  French  work  of  this 
age ;  Niccola  has  in  some  way  discovered  classic  art,  and  has 
been  content  with  that,  as  the  humanists  of  the  Renaissance 
were  to  be  content  with  the  discovery  of  ancient  literature 
8 


114    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

later :  he  has  imitated  the  statues  and  the  bas-reHefs  of  the 
sar(X>phagi,  as  they  copied  Cicero. 

To  pass  from  the  Baptistery  into  the  Campo  Santo,  where 
among  Christian  graves  the  cypresses  are  dying  in  the  earth  of 
Calvary,  and  the  urns  and  sarcophagi  of  j)agan  days  hold 
Christian  dust,  is  perhaps  to  make  easier  the  explanation  we 
need  of  the  art  of  Niccola.  Here,  it  is  said,  he  often  wandered 
"among  the  many  spoils  of  marbles  brought  by  the  arma- 
ments of  Pisa  to  this  city."  Among  these  ancient  sarcophagi 
there  is  one  where  you  may  find  the  Chase  of  Meleager  and 
the  Calydonian  boar ;  this  was  placed  by  the  Pisans  in  the 
fa9ade  of  the  Duomo  opposite  S.  Rocco,  and  was  used  as 
a  tomb  for  the  Contessa  Beatrice,  the  mother  of  the  great 
Countess  Maud.  Was  it  while  wandering  here,  in  looking  so 
often  on  that  tomb  on  his  way  to  Mass,  that  he  was  moved 
by  its  beauty  till  his  heart  remembered  its  childhood  in  a 
whole  world  of  such  things  ?  It  must  have  been  so,  for  here 
all  things  meet  together  and  are  reconciled  in  death. 

Out  of  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  Piazza  one  comes  into  a 
cool  cloister  that  surrounds  a  quadrangle  open  to  the  sky, 
in  which  a  cypress  still  lives.  The  sun  fills  the  garden  with 
a  golden  beauty,  in  which  the  butterflies  flit  from  flower  to 
flower  over  the  dead.  I  do  not  know  a  place  more  silent  or 
more  beautiful  One  lingers  in  the  cool  shadow  of  the  cloisters 
before  many  an  old  marble, — a  vase  carved  with  Bacchanalian 
women,  the  head  of  Achilles,  or  the  bust  of  Isotta  of  Rimini. 
But  it  is  before  the  fresco  of  the  Triumph  of  Death  that  one 
stays  longest,  trying  to  understand  the  dainty  treatment  of  so 
horrible  a  subject.  Those  fair  ladies  riding  on  horseback 
with  so  brave  a  show  of  cavaliers,  even  they  too  must  come 
at  last  to  be  just  dust,  is  it,  or  like  that  swollen  body  which 
seems  to  taint  even  the  summer  sunshine  lying  there  by  the 
wayside,  and  come  upon  so  unexpectedly  ?  What  love-song 
was  that  troubadour,  fluttering  with  ribbons,  singing  to  that 
little  company  under  the  orange-trees,  cavaliers  and  ladies 
returned  from  the  chase,  or  whiling  away  a  summer  after- 
noon playing  with  their  falcons  and  their  dogs  ?     The  servants 


PISA  115 

have  spread  rich  carpets  for  their  feet,  and  into  the  picture 
trips  a  singing  girl,  who  has  surely  called  the  very  loves  from 
Paradise  or  from  the  apple-trees  covered  with  blossom,  where 
they  make  their  temporary  abode.  What  love  song  were 
they  singing,  ere  the  music  was  frozen  on  their  lips  by  a  falling 
leaf  or  chance  flutter  of  bird  life  calling  them  to  turn,  and 
lo,  Death  is  here? 

It  is  in  such  a  place  as  this  that  any  meditation  upon 
death  loses  both  its  sentimental  and  its  ascetic  aspect,  and 
becomes  wholly  aesthetic,  so  that  it  can  never  be  before  this 
fresco  that  such  a  contemplation  should  be,  as  it  were,  "a 
lifelong  following  of  one's  own  funeral."  And  indeed,  it  is 
not  any  gross  fear  of  death  that  comes  to  one  at  all  here  in 
the  mysterious  sunshine,  but  a  new  delight  in  life.  Those 
joyful  pleasant  paintings  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  a  third-rate 
master,  but  one  who  is  always  full  of  joy  and  sunshine,  with 
a  certain  understanding  and  love,  too,  of  the  hills  and  the 
trees,  seem  to  confirm  us  in  our  delight  at  the  sun  and  the 
sea  wind,  here  in  Italy,  in  Italy  at  last.  For,  indeed,  in  what 
other  land  than  this  could  a  cemetery  be  so  beautiful,  and 
where  else  in  the  world  do  frescoes  like  these  stain  the  walls 
out  of  doors  amid  a  litter  of  antique  statues,  graves,  and 
flowers  over  the  heroic  or  holy  dead?  Here  you  may  see 
life  at  its  sanest  and  most  splendid  moments.  In  the  long 
hot  days  of  the  vintage,  for  instance,  when  the  young  men 
tread  the  wine-press,  the  girls  bear  the  grapes  in  great  baskets, 
and  boy  and  girl  together  pluck  the  purple  fruit  Call  it,  if 
you  will,  the  Drunkenness  of  Noali,  you  will  forget  the 
subject  altogether  in  your  delight  in  the  sun  and  the  joy  of 
the  vintage  itself,  where  the  girls  dance  among  the  vines 
under  the  burden  of  the  grapes,  and  the  little  children  play 
with  the  dogs,  and  the  goodman  tastes  the  wine.  Or  again, 
in  the  fresco  of  the  Tower  of  Babel :  think  if  you  can  of  all 
the  mere  horror  of  the  confusion,  and  the  terror  of  death, 
but  in  a  moment  you  will  forget  it,  remembering  only  that 
heroic  Republic  which  amid  her  enemies  built  her  splendid 
city,  her  beautiful  Duomo,  her  Tower  like  the  horn  of  an 


ii6    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

unicorn,  and  this  Campo  Santo  too,  where  the  hours  pass 
so  softly,  and  the  hottest  days  are  cool  and  full  of  delight. 
The  Victory  of  Abraham  is  a  battle  gay  with  the  banners  of 
Pisa,  when  the  Gonfalons  of  Florence  lay  low  in  the  dust ; 
the  Curse  of  Ham,  with  its  multitude  of  children,  is  just 
the  departure  of  some  prodigal  for  the  Sardinian  wars  on  a 
summer  evening  beyond  the  city  gate.  Thus  alone  in  this 
place  of  death  Pisa  lives,  ah !  not  in  the  desolate  streets  of 
the  modem  city,  but  fading  on  the  walls  of  her  Campo  Santo, 
a  ghost  among  ghosts,  immortalised  by  an  alien  hand. 

Coming  last  of  all  to  the  greatest  wonder  of  the  Piazza, 
it  is  really  with  surprise  you  find  the  Campanile  so  beautiful, 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  tower  of  Italy.  It  is  like  a  lily 
leaning  in  the  wind,  it  is  like  the  curved  horn  of  an  unicorn, 
it  is  like  an  ivory  Madonna  that  the  artist  has  not  had  the 
heart  to  carve  since  the  ivory  was  so  fair.  Begim  in  1174, 
it  was  designed  by  Bonanno.  He  made  it  all  of  white 
marble,  which  has  faded  now  to  the  colour  of  old  ivory.  Far 
away  at  the  top  of  the  tower  live  the  great  bells,  and  especially 
La  Pasquareccia,^  founded  in  1262,  stamped  with  a  relief  of 
the  Annunciation,  for  it  used  to  ring  the  Ave.  I  think  there 
can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that  the  lean  of  the  Tower  is  due 
to  some  terrible  accident  which  befell  it  after  the  third  gallery 
had  been  built,  for  the  fourth  gallery,  added  in  1204  by 
Benenabo,  begins  to  rectify  the  sinking ;  the  rest,  built  in  1 260, 
continues  to  throw  the  weight  from  the  lower  to  the  higher 
side.  As  we  know,  the  whole  Piazza  was  a  marsh,  and  just 
as  the  foundations  of  the  Tower  of  S.  Niccola  have  given  a 
little,  so  these  sank  much  earlier,  offering  an  unique  oppor- 
tunity to  a  barbarian  architect.  There  is,  as  has  been  often 
very  rightly  said,  no  such  thing  as  a  freak  in  Italian  art : 
its  aim  was  beauty,  very  simple  and  direct ;  nowhere  in  all 
its  history  will  you  find  a  grotesque  such  as  this.  It  is  strange 
that  a  northerner,  William  of  Innspruck,  finished  the  Tower 

*  See  On  the  Old  Road  through  France  to  Florence  (Murray,  1904),  in 
which  Mr.  Carmichael  wrote  the  Italian  part.  He  has  much  pleasant 
information  about  the  bells  of  Pisa,  p.  223. 


MSA  tt7 

from  the  fifth  storey  in  1260;  and  it  may  well  be  that  this 
Teuton  brought  to  the  work  something  of  a  natural  delight 
in  such  a  thing  as  this,  and  contrived  to  finish  it,  instead  of 
beginning  again.  It  seems  necessary  to  add  that  the  tower 
would  be  more  beautiful  if  it  were  perfectly  upright. 

The  Piazza  del  Duomo  is  full  of  interest.  Almost  opposite 
the  Campanile,  at  the  corner  of  the  Via  S.  Maria,  is  the  Casa 
dei  Trovatelli.  It  was  here,  as  I  suppose,^  that  the  Pisans 
built  that  hospital  and  chapel  to  S.  Giorgio  after  the  great  day 
of  Montecatini.2  Not  far  away,  behind  the  Via  Torelli  in 
Via  Arcevescovado,  is  the  archbishop's  palace,  with  a  fine 
courtyard.  If  we  follow  the  Via  Torelli  a  little,  we  pass,  on 
the  right,  the  Oratory  of  S.  Ranieri,  the  patron  saint  of  Pisa, 
where  there  is  a  crucifix  by  Giunta  Pisano  which  used  to 
hang  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Convent  ^  of  S.  Anna,  not  far  away, 
where  Emilia  Viviani  was  "incarcerated,"  as  Shelley  says. 
Close  by  are  the  few  remains  of  the  Baths  of  Hadrian.  At  the 
corner  we  pass  into  Via  S.  Anna,  and  then,  taking  the  first 
turning  to  the  left,  we  come  into  the  great  Piazza  di  S.  Caterina, 
before  the  church  of  that  name.  Built  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  it  has  a  fine  Pisan  fagade,  but  the  church  is  now 
closed  and  the  convent  has  become  a  boys'  school.  Passing 
through  the  shady  Piazza  under  the  plane-trees,  we  come 
into  the  Via  S.  Lorenzo,  and  then,  turning  to  the  right  into 
Vicolo  del  Ruschi,  we  come  into  a  Piazza  out  of  which 
opens  the  Piazza  di  S.  Francesco.  S.  Francesco  fell  on  evil 
days,  and  was  altogether  desecrated,  but  is  now  in  the  hands 
of  the  Franciscans  again.  This  is  well,  for  the  whole  church, 
founded  in  121 1,  and  not  the  Campanile  only,  is  said  to  be 
by  Niccola  Pisano.*  Behind  it,  in  the  old  convent,  is  the 
Museo. 

As  you  come  into  this  desecrated  and  ruined  cloister 
littered  with  rubbish,  among  which  here  and  there  you  may 

^  Was  it  here,  or  in  the  Ospcdale  dei  Trovatelli  close  to  S.  Michele  in 
Borgo  ;  cf.  Tronci,  p.  179. 
'  See  p.  95. 

'  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  op.  cit.  vol.  i.  p.  146,  note. 
*  See  Pisa^  da  I.  B.  Supino,  1905,  p.  43. 


ii8    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

see  some  quaint  or  charming  thing,  it  is  difficult  to  remember 
S.  Francis.  Yet,  indeed,  the  place  was  founded  by  two  of  his 
followers,  the  blessed  Agnello  and  the  blessed  Alberto,  and 
still  holds  in  a  locked  room  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  of 
his  portraits.  In  the  old  Chapter-house  are  some  fragments 
of  the  pulpit  from  the  Duomo  by  Giovanni  Pisano,  destroyed 
in  the  fire  of  1595.  Here  we  may  see  very  easily  the  differ- 
ence between  father  and  son.  It  is  no  longer  the  influence 
of  the  antique  that  gives  life  to  Italian  sculpture,  but  certainly 
French  work,  something  of  that  passionate  restless  energy 
that,  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  puts  certain  statues  at  Chartres, 
for  instance,  beside  the  best  Greek  work  without  shame. 
The  subjects  of  these  panels  are  the  same  as  those  of 
Niccola's  pulpit  in  the  Baptistery ;  one  could  not  wish  for 
a  better  opportvmity  of  comparing  the  work  of  the  two  men 
who  stand  at  the  source  of  the  Renaissance. 

Passing  through  the  cloister,  we  enter  the  convent  through 
a  great  room  on  the  first  floor,  hung  with  the  banners  of  the 
Giuoco  del  Ponte,  and  bright  with  service  books.  In  a 
Httle  room  on  the  left  (Sala  i)  we  come  into  the  gallery 
proper.  Here,  among  all  sorts  of  stained  parchments,  is  the 
precious  remnant  of  the  Cintola  del  Duomo,  that  girdle  of 
Maria  Assunta  which  used  to  be  bound  round  the  Duomo.^ 
It  took  some  three  hundred  yards  of  the  fabric,  crusted  with 
precious  stones,  painted  with  miniatures,  sewn  with  gold  and 
silver,  to  gird  the  Duomo.  I  know  not  when  first  it  was 
made,  nor  who  first  conceived  the  proud  thought,^  nor  what 
particular  victory  put  it  into  his  heart.  Only  the  tyrant  and 
thief  who  stole  it  I  know,  Gambacorta,  whom  Pisa  brought 
back  from  exile. 

In  the  chamber  next  to  this  are  some  strangely  beautiful 
crucifixes  by  Giunta  Pisano,  and  a  little  marvellous  portrait  of 
S.  Francesco  on  copper  with  a  bright  red  book  in  his  hand. 

Of  the   pictures  which   follow,  but   two   ever   made   any 

* 
•  See  p.  91. 

'  Mr.  Carmichacl  {On  the  Old  Road  through  Frame  to  Florente,  p,  224) 
says  it  must  have  been  worth  ;^30,ooo  of  our  money. 


PISA  119 

impression  upon  me.  One,  a  Madonna  and  Child  by  Gentile 
da  Fabriano,  is  full  of  a  mysterious  loveliness  that  did  not 
survive  him ;  the  other  is  an  altar-piece  from  S.  Caterina  by 
Simone  Martini  of  Siena,  where  a  Magdalen  holds  the  delicate 
casket  of  precious  ointment,  and,  as  though  fainting  with  the 
sweetness  of  her  weeping,  leans  a  little,  her  sleepy,  languorous 
eyes  drooping  under  her  heavy  hair,  which  a  jewelled  ribbon 
hardly  holds  up.  Something  in  this  "  primitive  "  art  has  been 
lost  when  we  come  to  Angelico,  some  almost  morbid  loveli- 
ness that  you  may  find  even  yet  in  the  air  about  Perugia  and 
Siena,  in  the  delicate  flowers  there,  the  honeysuckle  which 
the  country  people  call  k  manine  della  Madonnina — the  little 
hands  of  the  Virgin,  and  even  in  the  people  sometimes,  in 
their  soft  gestures  and  dreamy  looks.  And  for  these  I  pass 
by  the  pictures  by  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  by  Sodoma,  and  the  rest, 
for  they  are  as  nothing. 

It  is,  however,  not  a  work  of  art  at  all  that  is  perhaps  the 
most  interesting  thing  in  the  Museo ;  but  a  model  of  the 
Giuoco  del  Ponte^  with  certain  banners,  flags,  bucklers,  and 
such,  once  used  by  the  Pisans  in  their  national  game.^  This 
Giuoco  was  played  on  the  Ponte  di  Mezzo,  by  the  people 
who  lived  on  the  north  bank  of  the  river  and  those  on  the 
south,  nor  were  the  country  folk  excluded ;  and  Mr.  Heywood 
tells  us  that  it  was  no  uncommon  sight  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago  "to  see  hanging  above  the  doorway  of  a  contadino's 
house  the  targone  [or  shield]  with  which  his  sires  played  at 
Ponte."  ^  The  city  and  countryside  being  thus  divided  into 
two  camps,  as  it  were,  each  chose  an  army,  that  was  divided 
into  six  squadre  of  from  thirty  to  sixty  soldati.  The  squadre 
of  the  north  were,  Santa  Maria  with  a  banner  of  blue  and 
white ;  San  Michele,  whose  colours  were  white  and  red ;  the 
Calci,  white  and  green  and  gold  ;  Calcesana,  yellow  and  black  ; 
the  Mattaccini,  white,  blue,  and  peach-blossom ;  the  Satiri,  red 
or  black.    The  southern  squadre  were  called  S.  Antonio,  whose 

^  Let  me  refer  the  reader  again  to  Mr.  William  Heywood's  exhaustive 
work  on  Italian  mediaeval  games,  PoUio  and  Pottle,  Methuen,  1904. 
»  See  also  F.  Tribolati,  //  Gicco  del  Ponte,  Firenze,  1877.  P-  5. 


120    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

banner  was  of  flame  colour,  on  which  was  a  pig ;  S.  Martino, 
with  a  banner  of  white,  black,  and  red ;  San  Marco,  with  a 
banner  of  white  and  yellow  with  a  winged  lion,  and  under  its 
feet  was  the  gospel,  on  which  was  written  Pax  tibi  Marce  \  the 
Leoni,  with  a  banner  of  black  and  white ;  the  Dragoni,  with  a 
banner  of  green  and  white  j  the  Delfini,  with  a  banner  of  blue 
and  yellow.     All  these  banners  were  of  silk,  and  very  large.^ 

Originally  the  game  was  played  on  St.  Anthony's  day,  the 
1 7  th  of  January ;  later,  this  first  game  came  to  be  a  sort  of 
trial  match,  in  which  the  players  were  chosen  for  the  Battaglia 
generale,  which  took  place  on  some  later  date  agreed  upon  by 
both  parties.  Thus,  I  suppose,  if  any  noble  visited  Pisa,  the 
Battaglia  generale  would  be  fought  in  his  honour. 

The  challenge  of  the  side  defeated  at  the  last  contest 
having  been  received,  a  council  of  war  was  held  in  both 
camps,  and  permission  being  given  by  the  authorities,  on 
that  evening,  the  city  was  illuminated.  The  great  procession 
(the  squadre  in  each  camp,  in  the  order  in  which  I  have 
named  them)  took  place  on  the  day  of  battle,  each  army 
keeping  to  its  own  side  of  Amo.  Then  the  Piazza  del  Ponte 
for  the  northern  army,  the  Piazza  de  Bianchi  for  the  southern, 
were  enclosed  with  palisades  to  form  the  camps,  and  the  battle 
began. 

In  order  to  save  the  soldato  from  hurt,  his  head  was  covered 
with  Sifalzata  of  cotton,  and  guarded  by  an  iron  casque  with  a 
barred  vizor.^  The  body  was  also  swathed  in  cotton  or  a 
doublet  of  leather,  over  which  iron  armour  was  worn.  The 
arms,  too,  were  covered  with  quilted  leather  and  the  hands  in 
gauntlets,  and  the  legs  were  protected  with  gaiters,  while 
round  the  neck  a  quilted  collar  was  tied  to  save  the  collar 
bone.  The  only  weapon  allowed  was  the  targone,  a  shield  of 
wood  curved  at  the  top,  and  almost  but  not  quite  pointed  at 
the  foot.     At  the  back  of  this  were  two  handles,  which  were 

*  Many  of  these  banners  are  hung  in  the  great  Salone — the  first  room 
you  enter  on  the  first  floor  of  the  Museo. 

'  All  the  coverings  and  armour  are  illustrated  in  the  Oplomachia  Pisana 
of  Camillo  Borghi.     (Lucca,  1713.) 


PISA  121 

gripped  by  both  hands,  and  the  blow  delivered  with  the 
smaller  end  of  the  shield.  When  the  press  of  the  fight  was 
not  very  great,  no  doubt  this  shield  was  used  as  a  club. 
These  targoni  were  decorated  with  mottoes  or  a  device,  as  we 
may  see  from  these  now  in  the  Museo ;  they  were  evidently 
even  heirlooms  in  the  family  which  had  the  honour  to  see  one 
of  its  members  chosen  for  the  Battaglia. 

Four  comandanti  or  captains  on  each  side  entered  the  battle 
itself.  Two  of  these  on  each  side  stood  on  the  parapet  of  the 
bridge  directing  their  men.  The  two  northerners  wore  a  scarlet 
uniform  with  white  facings,  the  two  southerners  a  green  uni- 
form with  white  facings.  Two  other  comandanti  in  each  army 
stood  on  the  ground.  The  two  first  were  unarmed,  and  were 
not  allowed  to  interfere  with  the  fight,  but  the  two  on  the 
ground,  who  were  allowed  two  adjutants,  could  scarcely  have 
been  prevented  from  giving  or  receiving  blows. 

Before  the  fight  began,  the  banner  of  Pisa,  a  silver  cross  on 
a  red  ground,  floated  from  a  staff  in  the  middle  of  the  bridge. 
This  was  lowered  across  the  bridge  to  divide  the  two  armies ; 
and  at  the  close  of  the  fight  it  was  so  lowered  again,  and, 
according  as  either  side  was  in  the  enemy's  territory,  so  the 
victory  went. 

When  the  battle  was  over,  the  victorious  side  made  pro- 
cession through  the  city.  If  the  north  had  won,  all  Pisa  north 
of  Amo  was  alight  with  bonfires,  the  houses  were  decorated, 
everyone  was  in  the  streets ;  while  south  of  Amo  the  city  was 
in  darkness,  the  people  in  their  houses,  not  a  dog  lurked 
without.  Then  followed,  after  a  few  days,  the  great  trionfo 
of  the  victors. 

"The  procession  was  headed,"  says  Mr.  Heywood,  "by  two 
trumpeters  on  horseback,  followed  by  a  band  of  horsemen 
clad  in  military  costumes,  and  by  war-cars  full  of  arms  and 
banners  of  the  vanquished.  Thereafter  came  certain  soldiers 
on  foot  with  their  hands  bound,  to  represent  prisoners  taken 
in  the  battle ;  then  more  trumpeters  and  drummers ;  and  then 
the  triumphal  chariot,  drawn  by  four  or  six  horses  richly 
draped   and   adorned  with   emblems   and   mottoes.     It  was 


122    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

accompanied  and  escorted  by  knights  and  gentlemen  on 
horseback.  The  noble  ladies  of  the  city  followed  in  their 
carriages,  and  behind  them  thronged  an  infinite  people 
(infinito  popolo)  scattering  broadcast  various  poetical  com- 
positions, and  singing  with  sweet  melodies  in  the  previously 
appointed  places,  the  glories  of  the  victory  won,  making 
procession  through  the  city  until  night."  After  dark,  bon- 
fires were  lighted.  On  high  above  the  triumphal  car  was 
set  some  allegorical  figure,  such  as  Valour,  Victory,  or 
Fame.i 

The  last  Giuoco  del  Ponte  was  fought  in  1807.  "Certain 
pastimes,"  says  Signor  Tribolati,  ''are  intimately  connected 
with  certain  institutions  and  beliefs ;  and  when  the  latter 
cease  to  exist,  the  former  also  perish  with  them.  The  Giuoco 
del  Ponte  was  a  relic  of  popular  chivalry,  one  of  the  innumer- 
able knightly  games  which  adorned  the  simple,  artistic, 
warlike  life  of  the  hundred  Republics  of  Italy.  .  .  .  What 
have  we  to  do  with  the  arms  and  banners  of  the  tourneys  ? 
At  most  we  may  rub  the  cobwebs  away  and  shake  off  the  dust 
and  lay  them  aside  in  a  museum."* 

To  come  out  of  the  Museo,  that  graveyard  of  dead  beauty, 
of  forgotten  enthusiasms,  into  the  quiet,  deserted  Piazza  di  S. 
Francesco,  where  the  summer  sleeps  ever  in  the  sun  and  no 
footstep  save  a  foreigner's  ever  seems  to  pass,  is  to  fall  from 
one  dream  into  another,  not  less  mysterious  and  full  of 
beauty.  How  quiet  now  is  this  old  city  that  once  rang  with 
the  shouts  of  the  victors  home  from  some  sea  fight,  or 
returned  from  the  Giuoco.  Only,  as  you  pass  along  Via  S. 
Francesco  and  turn  into  Piazza  di  S.  Paolo,  the  children 
gather  about  you,  reminding  you  that  in  Italy  even  the  oldest 
places — S.  Paolo  all'Orto,  for  instance,  with  its  beautiful  old 
tower  that  is  now  a  dwelling — are  put  to  some  use,  and  are 
really  living  still  like  the  gods  who  have  taken  service  with  us, 

'  There  is  a  rich  literature  of  poems  and  Relazioni,  etc.,  in  the  Gioco  del 
Ponte. 

*  F.  Tribolati,  //  Gicco  del  Ponie,  Firenze,  1877.  See  also  Ileywood, 
op.  cit.  p.  136. 


PISA  123 

perhaps  in  irony,  to  console  themselves  for  our  treachery  in 
watching  our  sadness  without  them. 

It  is  certainly  with  some  such  thought  as  this  in  his  heart 
that  the  unforgetful  traveller  will  enter  S.  Pierino,  not  far  from 
S.  Paolo  airOrto,  at  the  comer  of  Via  Cavour  and  Via  delle 
belle  Torre.  Coming  into  this  old  church  suddenly  out  of 
the  sunshine,  how  dark  a  place  it  seems,  full  of  a  mysterious 
melancholy  too,  a  sort  of  remembrance  of  change  and  death, 
as  though  some  treachery  asleep  in  our  hearts  had  awakened 
on  the  threshold  and  accused  us.  The  crypt  has  long  been 
used  as  a  charnel  house,  the  guide-book  tells  you,  but  maybe 
it  is  not  any  memory  of  the  unremembered  and  countless  dead 
that  has  stirred  in  your  heart,  but  some  stranger  impulse  urging 
you  to  a  dislike  of  the  darkness,  that  dim  mysterious  light  that 
is  part  of  the  north  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  Italy.  How 
full  of  twilight  it  is,  yet  once  in  this  place  a  temple  to  Apollo 
stood,  full  of  the  sun,  almost  within  sound  of  the  sea,  when, 
we  know  not  how,^  the  Pisans  received  news  of  Jesus  Christ, 
and,  forgetting  Apollo,  gave  his  temple  to  St.  Peter.  Then  in 
1072  they  pulled  down  that  old  "house  of  idols," ^  and  built 
this  church,  calling  it  S.  Pietro  in  Vincoli,  perhaps  because  of 
the  presence  of  the  old  gods,  perhaps  because  it  was  so  dark 
— who  knows;  and  on  the  30th  of  August  11 19,  Archbishop 
Pietro,  he  who  brought  the  cross  of  silver  from  Rome  and  put 
in  it  the  banner  of  the  city  and  led  Pisa  to  victory  in  Majorca, 
solemnly  consecrated  it. 

I  was  thinking  somewhat  in  this  fashion,  resting  on  a  bench 
in  that  cool  twilight  place,  where  the  sounds  of  life  come  from 
very  far  off,  when  out  of  the  darkness  an  old  man  crept 
toward  me ;  he  seemed  as  old  as  the  church  itself.  "  The 
Signore  would  see  the  church,"  he  asked;  "who  can  the 
Signore  wish  for  better  than  myself? — it  is  my  own  church,  I 
am  its  guardian."     Truly  he  was  very  old  :  if  he  were  Apollo, 

^  Yet  it  is  said  that  St.  Peter  himself  came  to  Pisa  from  Antioch,  and 
founded  the  Church  of  S.  Pietro  in  Grado,  and  consecrated  Pierino  first 
Bishop  of  Pisa  ;  cf.  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  3. 

'  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  23. 


124    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

long  and  evil  had  been  his  days ;  if  he  were  St.  Peter,  indeed, 
he  was  very  like. 

It  was  a  long  story  of  buried  treasure,  buried  or  lost  I  know 
not  which,  that  he  tried  to  tell  me,  while  he  pointed  to  the 
beautiful  pavement,  or  caressed  the  old  fading  pillars,  leading 
me  up  the  broken  steps  into  the  greater  darkness  of  the  nave, 
where  he  showed  me  one  of  the  most  ancient  pictures  in  Pisa, 
a  great,  mournful,  and  grievous  crucifix,  a  colossal  Christ,  His 
feet  nailed  separately  to  the  cross.  His  body  tortured  and 
emaciated,  a  hideous  mask  of  death ; — here  in  the  temple  of 
Apollo.  "  It  is  here,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  that  Paganism  and 
Christianity  were  married ;  and  in  the  temple  lie  the  dead,  and 
in  the  church  the  living  pray,  as  you  see,  Signore,  beside  these 
old  pillars  that  were  not  built  for  any  Christian  house.  Such 
is  the  splendour  and  antiquity  of  our  city.  For,  as  you  know, 
doubtless,  the  Duomo  itself  is  built  on  the  foundations  of 
Nero's  Palace,^  S.  Andrea  (not  far  away)  was  once  a  temple  of 
Venus,  in  S.  Niccola  we  besought  Ceres,  and  in  S.  Michele 
called  on  Mars  ;  such,  Signore,  is  the  splendour  and  glory  of 
our  city.  .      ." 

Evening  had  come  when  I  found  myself  again  on  the 
Lung'  Amo,  in  a  world  neither  Pagan  nor  Christian,  in  which 
I  am  a  stranger. 

Leaving  behind  you  Ponte  di  Mezzo  and  the  Lung'  Amo, 
quasi  a  modo  (Tun  archo  di  bahstro^  you  come  into  the  Borgo, 
under  the  low  arches  of  the  old  houses  that  make  a  covered 
way.  This  is  perhaps  the  oldest  part  of  Pisa.  Almost  at 
once  on  your  right  you  pass  S.  Michele  in  Borgo,  built 
probably  just  before  his  death  by  Fra  Guglielmo,  that  disciple 
of  Niccola  Pisano.  Fra  Guglielmo  died  in  the  convent  of 
S.  Caterina,  for  he  had  been  fifty-seven  years  in  the  Dominican 

'  He  said  palace,  and  palace  it  may  be,  for  the  baths  are  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away. 

*  So  a  nineteenth-century  writer  calls  it.  Leopardi,  too,  cannot  find 
words  enough  to  express  its  beauty  :  "  Questo  Lung'  Amo  h  uno  spectaccolo 
cosi  hello  cosi  ampio  cosl  magnifico,"  etc. 


PISA  125 

Order.  Tronci  tells  us  that,  being  one  day  in  Bologna,  where 
he  had  gone  with  Niccola  his  master  to  make  a  tomb  for  S. 
Domenico,  when  the  old  tomb  was  opened  he  secretly  took  a 
bone  and  hid  it,  and  without  saying  anything  presently  set  out 
for  Pisa.  Arrived  there,  he  placed  the  relic  under  the  table 
of  the  altar  of  S.  Maria  Maddalena,  and  was  seen  often  by  the 
brethren  praying  there, — they  knew  not  why.  But  at  his  death 
he  revealed  his  pious  theft,  and  showed  the  bone  in  its  place, 
and  it  was  guarded  and  shown  to  the  people. 

But  S.  Michele  in  Borgo  is  older  than  Fra  Guglielmo,  who 
died  about  the  year  131 3.  Certainly  the  crypt  is  ancient  as 
are  the  pillars.  A  certain  Buono  is  said  to  have  built  a 
church  here  in  990 ;  but  little,  however,  now  remaining  can  be 
of  that  date,  the  church  as  a  whole  being  of  about  1 3 1 2,  and, 
as  I  have  said,  probably  the  last  work  of  Fra  Guglielmo. 

Passing  up  the  Borgo,  here  and  there  we  may  see  signs  of 
ancient  Pisa  in  the  sunken  pillars;  for  instance,  before  a 
house  in  a  street  on  the  left.  Via  del  Monte,  following 
which  we  come  into  the  most  beautiful  Piazza  in  Pisa, 
perhaps  in  Italy,  Piazza  dei  Cavalieri,  once  the  Piazza  dei 
Anziani. 

On  the  right  is  the  Church  of  the  Knights  of  St.  Stephen, 
Santo  Stefano  dei  Cavalieri ;  next  to  it  is  the  beautiful 
palace  of  the  Anziani,  later  the  Palazzo  Conventuale  dei 
Cavalieri,  rebuilt  by  Vasari.  Almost  opposite  this  is  a  palace 
under  which  the  road  passes,  built  to  the  shape  of  the 
Piazza ;  it  marks  the  spot  where  the  Tower  of  Hunger  once 
stood,  where  the  eagles  of  the  Republic  were  housed,  and 
where  Count  Ugolino  della  Gherardesca  with  his  sons  and 
nephews  were  starved  to  death  by  Archbishop  Ruggieri  degli 
Ubaldini.  Opposite  to  this  is  the  marble  Palazzo  del  Consiglio, 
also  belonging  to  the  Order  of  St.  Stephen. 

The  Knights  of  St.  Stephen,  to  whom,  indeed,  the  whole 
Piazza  seems  to  be  devoted,  were  a  religious  and  military  Order 
founded  by  Cosimo  i,  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  who  sits  on 
horseback  in  front  of  the  beautiful  steps  of  the  Conventuale. 
The  object  of  the  Order  was  to  harry  the  Moorish  pirates  of  the 


126    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Mediterranean,  to  redeem  their  captives,  and  to  convert  these 
Moors  to  Christianity ;  nor  were  they  wanting  in  war,  for  they 
fought  at  Lepanto.  Cosimo  placed  the  Order  under  the 
protection  of  St.  Stephen,  because  he  had  gained  his  greatest 
victory  on  that  saint's  day.  The  Knights  seem  to  have  been 
of  two  kinds  :  the  religious,  who  took  three  major  vows  and 
lived  in  the  Conventuale  under  the  rule  of  St.  Benedict,  and 
served  the  Church  of  S.  Stefano  j  and  the  mihtary,  who 
might  not  only  hold  property  but  marry.  Their  cross  is  very 
like  the  cross  of  Pisa,  but  red,  while  that  is  white. 

In  S,  Stefano  there  is  little  to  see,  a  few  old  banners,  a 
series  of  bad  frescoes,  and  a  bust  of  S.  Lussorius  by  Dona- 
tello,  perhaps, — at  least,  that  sculptor  was  working  for  eighteen 
months  in  the  city.  Before  the  sixteenth  century  this  Piazza 
must  have  been  very  different  from  what  it  is  to-day.  Where 
S.  Stefano  stands  now  S.  Sebastiano  stood,  that  church  where 
the  Anziani  met  so  often  to  decide  peace  or  war.^  Close  by 
was  the  palace  of  the  Podest^,  while  beyond  the  Palazzo 
Anziani  rose  the  Torre  delle  Sette  Vie,  Torre  Gualandi,  Torre 
della  Fame,  for  it  bore  all  three  names ;  only,  the  last  came  to 
it  after  the  hideous  crime  of  Ruggiero.  If  we  cross  the 
Piazza  opposite  the  Palazzo  Conventuale,  and  pass  into  Via 
S.  Sisto,  we  come  to  the  church  of  that  saint,  where  also  the 
Grand  Council  used  to  meet.  It  was  founded  to  commemorate 
the  great  victories  that  came  to  Pisa  on  that  day.  These 
antique  columns  are  the  spoil  of  war,  as  Tronci  tells  us.^ 
Returning  to  the  Piazza,  and  leaving  it  by  Via  S.  Frediano, 
we  soon  come  to  the  church  of  that  saint,  with  its  lovely  and 
spacious  nave  and  antique  columns.  A  little  farther  on  is 
the  University,  La  Sapienza,  founded  by  Conte  Fazio  della 
Gherardesca  in  1338.  In  that  year  Conte  Fazio  enlai^ed 
the  Piazza  degli  Anziani,  so  that  La  Nolnliicl  should  be  able 
to  walk  there  more  readily ;  and  to  render  the  city  more 
honourable,   with  the   consent    of  the   Anziani  and  all  the 

'  It  was  in  S.  Sebastiano  that  Ruggiero  condemned  Count  Ugolino  and 
his  sons. 
'  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  30, 


PISA  127 

Senate,  he  founded  a  university,  to  lead  the  greatest  doctors 
to  lecture  there ;  and  to  establish  the  Theatre  of  the  Schools 
he  sent  ambassadors  in  the  name  of  the  Republic  to  Pope 
Benedict  for  his  authorisation.  Needless  to  say,  this  was 
given,  and  in  1340  we  find  Messer  Bartolo  da  Sassoferrato  and 
Messer  Guido  da  Prato,  Doctor  of  Physics,  lecturing  on 
**  Chirugia,"  ^  In  1589,  Galileo  was  Professor  of  Mathematics 
here.  The  present  building  dates  from  1493.  Close  by, 
between  the  University  and  the  Lung'  Amo,  are  the  remains 
of  an  old  gate  of  the  city,  Porta  Aurea,  and  some  remnants 
of  towers. 

Crossing  Amo  by  Ponte  Solferino,  and  turning  along  the 
Lung'  Amo  Gambacorti  to  the  left,  we  come  suddenly  upon  a 
great  Piazza  in  which  an  old  and  splendid  church  is  hidden 
away.  And  just  as  the  Duomo,  the  great  church  of  the 
northern  part  of  the  city,  is  set  just  within  the  walls  far  away 
from  the  Borgo,  so  here,  in  the  southern  part  of  Pisa,  S.  Paolo 
a  Ripa  d'Amo  is  abandoned  by  the  riverside  on  the  verge 
of  the  country,  for  the  fields  are  at  its  threshold.  And 
indeed,  this  desolate  church  is  really  older  than  the  Duomo, 
for,  as  some  say,  it  served  as  the  Great  Church  of  Pisa  while 
the  Cathedral  was  building.  Founded,  as  the  Pisans  assert, 
by  Charlemagne  in  805,  it  was  rather  the  model  of  the  Duomo, 
if  this  be  true,  than,  as  is  generally  supposed,  a  copy  of  it. 
Bare  for  the  most  part  and  empty,  its  original  beauty  and 
simplicity  still  remain  to  it ;  nor  should  any  who  find  it  omit 
to  pass  into  the  priest's  house,  to  see  the  old  Baptistery  now 
in  the  hands  of  Benedictine  nuns. 

On  our  way  back  to  Pisa  by  the  Lung'  Amo  Gambacorti, 
we  may  look  always  with  new  joy  at  the  Torre  Guelfa,  almost 
all  that  is  left  of  the  great  arsenal  built  in  1200.  And  then 
you  will  not  pass  without  entering,  it  may  be,  S.  Maria  della 
Spina,  where  of  old  the  huntsmen  used  to  hear  Mass  at  dawn 
before  going  about  their  occasions. 

And  many  another  church  in  Pisa  is  devout  and  beautiful. 
S.  Sepolcro,  which  Diotisalvi  made,  he  who  built  the  Baptistery, 
'  Tronci,  op.  cit.  p.  343. 


128    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

a  church  of  the  Knights  Templars  below  the  level  of  the  way  ; 
S,  Martino  too,  both  in  Chinseca,  hat  part  of  the  city  named 
after  her  who  gave  the  alarm  nearly  a  thousand  years  ago 
when  the  Saracen  sails  hove  in  sight. — Ah,  do  not  be  in  a 
hurry  to  leave  Pisa  for  any  other  city.  Let  us  think  of  old 
things  for  a  little,  and  be  quiet.  It  may  be  we  shall  never  see 
that  line  of  hills  again — Monti  Pisani ;  it  were  better  to  look 
at  them  a  little  carefully.  A  little  while  before  to-day  the 
most  precious  of  our  dreams  was  not  so  lovely  as  that  spur 
of  the  Apennines. 


VII 
LIVORNO^ 

IT  was  only  after  many  days  spent  in  the  Pineta,  those  pine- 
woods  that  go  down  to  the  sea  at  Gombo,  where  the 
silent,  deserted  shore,  strewn  with  sea-shells  and  whispering 
with  grass,  stretches  far  away  to  the  Carrara  hills,  that  very 
early  one  morning  I  set  out  for  Livorno,  that  port  which  has 
taken  the  place  of  the  old  Porto  Pisano,^  so  famous  through 
the  world  of  old.  Leaving  Pisa  by  the  Porta  a  Mare,  I 
soon  came  to  S.  Pietro  a  Grado,  a  lonely  church  among  the 
marshes,  that  once,  as  I  suppose,  stood  on  the  seashore.  It 
was  here  St.  Peter,  swept  out  of  his  course  by  a  storm  on  his 
way  from  Antioch,  came  ashore  before  setting  out  again  for 
Naples,  entering  Italy  first,  then,  on  the  shores  of  Etruria.  So 
the  tale  goes ;  but  the  present  church  seems  to  be  a  building 
of  the  twelfth  century.  Its  simple  beauty,  which  the  sea- 
wind  and  the  sun  have  kissed  for  seven  hundred  years,  seems  to 
give  character  to  the  whole  plain,  so  ample  and  green,  beyond 
the  wont  of  Italy ;  but,  indeed,  here  we  are  on  the  threshold  of 
the  Maremma,  that  beautiful,  wild,  deserted  country  that  man 
has  not  yet  reclaimed  from  Death,  where  the  summer  is  still 
and  treacherous  in  its  loveliness,  where  in  winter  for  a  Httle 
while  the  herdsmen  come  down  with  their  cattle  from  the 
Garfagnana,    and    the    hills    musical   with    love    songs.      On 

^  Livorno,  in  the  barbarian  dialect  of  the  Genovesi,  Ligomo  ;  and  hence 
our  word  Leghorn.  It  is  excusable  that  we  should  have  taken  St.  George 
from  Genoa,  but  not  that  we  should  have  stolen  her  dialect  also. 

*  Perhaps,  but  Bocca  d'Arno,  that  delicious  place,  is  Air  and  far  to-day 
from  Livorno. 


130    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  threshold  of  that  treacherous  summer,  as  it  were,  this  lonely 
church  stands  on  guard.  Within,  the  church  is  beautiful,  in 
the  old  manner,  splendid  with  antique  pillars  caught  about  now 
with  iron ;  but  it  is  perhaps  the  frescoes,  that  have  faded  on 
the  walls  till  they  are  scarcely  more  than  the  shadows  of  a 
thousand  forgotten  sunsets,  that  you  will  care  for  most.  They 
are  the  work  of  Giunta  Pisano,  or  if,  indeed,  they  are  not  his, 
they  are  of  his  school, — a  school  already  decadent,  splendid 
with  the  beauty  that  has  looked  on  death  and  can  never  be 
quite  sane  again.  No  one,  I  think,  can  ever  deny  the  beauty  of 
Giunta's  work ;  it  is  full  of  a  strange  subtilty  that  is  ready  to 
deny  life  over  and  over  again.  He  is  concerned  not  with  life, 
but  chiefly  with  religion,  and  with  certain  bitter  yet  altogether 
lovely  colours  which  evoke  for  him,  and  for  us  too,  if  we  will 
lend  ourselves  to  their  influence,  all  the  misery  and  pessimism 
of  the  end  of  the  Middle  Age,  its  restlessness  and  ennui,  that 
find  consolation  only  in  the  memory  of  the  grotesque  frailty 
of  the  body  which  one  day  Jesus  will  raise  up.  All  the 
anarchy  and  discontent  of  our  own  time  seems  to  me  to  be 
expressed  in  such  work  as  this,  in  which  ugliness,  as  we  might 
say,  has  as  much  right  as  beauty.  It  is,  I  think,  the  mistake  of 
much  popular  criticism  in  our  time  to  assert  that  these 
"  primitive "  painters  were  beginners,  and  could  not  achieve 
what  they  wished.  They  were  not  beginners,  rather  they  were 
the  most  subtle  artists  of  a  convention — and  all  art  is  a  con- 
vention— that  was  about  to  die.  If  one  can  see  their  work 
aright,  it  is  beautiful ;  but  it  has  lost  touch  with  life,  or  is  a 
mere  satirical  comment  upon  it,  that  Giotto,  with  his  simplicity, 
his  eager  delight  in  natural  things  and  in  man,  will  supersede 
and  banish.  In  him,  Europe  seems  to  shake  off"  the  art  and 
fatality  of  the  East,  under  whose  shadow  Christianity  had  grown 
up,  to  be  altogether  transformed  and  humanised  by  Rome, 
when  she  at  the  head  really  of  humanism  and  art  should  once 
more  give  to  the  world  the  thoughts  and  life  of  another  people 
full  of  joy  and  temperance — things  so  hard  for  the  Christian  to 
understand.  And  it  is  really  with  such  a  painter  as  Giunta 
Pisano  that  Christian   art  pure  and  simple   comes  to  end. 


LIVORNO  131 

Some  divinity  altogether  different  has  touched  those  who 
came  after :  Giotto,  who  is  enamoured  of  life  which  the 
Christian  must  deny ;  Angelico,  whose  world  is  full  of  a  music 
that  is  about  to  become  pagan  ;  Botticelli,  who  has  mingled  the 
tears  of  Mary  with  the  salt  of  the  sea,  and  has  seen  a  new  star 
in  heaven,  and  proclaimed  the  birth  not  of  the  Nazarene,  but 
the  Cyprian. 

But  it  is  not  such  thoughts  as  these  you  will  find  in  Livomo, 
one  of  the  busiest  towns  in  Italy,  full  of  modem  business  life ; 
material  in  the  manner  of  the  Latin  people  that  by  reason  of 
some  inherent  purity  of  heart  never  becomes  sordid  in  our 
fashion. 

•'  There  is  absolutely  nothing  to  see  in  Leghorn,"  says  Mr. 
Hare.  Well,  but  that  depends  on  what  you  seek,  does  it  not  ? 
If  you  would  see  a  Tuscan  city  that  is  absolutely  free  from  the 
tourist,  I  think  you  must  go  to  Livomo.  It  is  tme,  works  of 
art  are  not  many  there;  but  the  statue  of  Grand  Duke 
Ferdinand,  with  four  Moors  in  bronze  chained  to  his  feet,  a 
work  of  Piero  Jacopo  Tacca,  made  in  1617-1625,  is  something ; 
though  I  confess  those  chained  robbers  at  the  feet  of  a  petty 
tyrant  who  was  as  great  a  robber,  he  and  his  forebears,  as  any 
among  them,  are  in  this  age  of  sentimental  liberalism,  from 
which  who  can  escape,  a  little  disconcerting.  Ferdinand  has 
his  best  monument  in  the  city  itself,  which  he  founded  to  take 
the  place  of  Porto  Pisano,  that  in  the  course  of  centuries 
had  silted  up.  In  order  to  populate  the  new  port,  he  pro- 
claimed there  a  religious  liberty  he  denied  to  his  Duchy  at 
large.  His  policy  was  splendidly  successful.  Every  sort  of 
outcast  made  Livorno  his  home — especially  the  Jews,  for 
whom  Ferdinando  had  a  great  respect ;  but  there  were  there 
Greeks  also,  and  nuovi  christiani,  Moors  converted  to 
Christianity.  These  last,  I  think,  indeed,  must  have  been 
worth  seeing ;  for  no  doubt  Ferdinand's  politic  grant  of 
religious  liberjy  did  not  include  Moors  who  had  not  been 
"converted  to  Christianity." 

But  the  great  days  of  Livorno  are  over ;  though  who  may 
say  if  a  new  prosperity  does  not  await  her  in  the  near  future, 


132     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

she  is  so  busy  a  place.  Livomo  la  cara,  they  call  her,  and 
no  doubt  of  old  she  endeared  herself  to  her  outcasts.  To- 
day, however,  it  is  to  the  Italian  summer  visitor  that  she  is 
dear.  There  he  comes  for  sea-bathing,  and  it  is  difficult  to 
imagine  a  more  delightful  seaside.  For  you  may  live  on 
the  hills  and  yet  have  the  sea.  Beyond  Livomo  rises  the 
first  high  ground  of  the  Maremma,  Montenero,  holy  long 
ago  with  its  marvellous  picture  of  the  Madonna,  which,  as  I 
know,  still  works  wonders.  Here  Byron  lived,  and  not  far 
away  Shelly  wrote  the  principal  part  of  The  Cenci. 

Passing  out  by  tramway  by  the  Porta  Maremmana,  you 
come  to  Byron's  villa,  almost  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  on  a 
sloping  ground  on  your  right.  Entering  by  the  great  iron 
gates  of  what  looks  like  a  neglected  park,  you  climb  by  a 
stony  road  up  to  the  great  villa  itself,  among  the  broken 
statues  and  the  stone  pines,  where  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
views  of  the  Pisan  country  and  seashore,  with  the  islands  of 
Gorgona,  Capraja,  Elba,  and  Corsica  in  the  distance.  Villa 
Dupoy,  as  it  was  called  in  Byron's  day,  is  now  in  the  summer 
months  used  as  a  girls'  school :  and,  indeed,  it  would  be  easy 
to  house  a  regiment  in  its  vast  rooms,  where  here  and  there  a 
seventeenth  century  fresco  is  still  gorgeous  on  the  walls,  and 
the  mirrors  are  dim  with  age.  From  here  the  walk  up  to  Our 
Lady  of  Montenero  is  delightful ;  and  once  there,  on  the  hills 
above  the  church,  the  rolling  downs  towards  Maremma  lie 
before  you  without  a  single  habitation,  almost  without  a  road, 
a  country  of  heath  and  fierce  rock,  desolate  and  silent, 
splendid  with  the  wind  and  the  sun. 

The  Church  of  Madonna  lies  just  under  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  and  is  even  to-day  a  place  of  many  pilgrimages :  for  the 
whole  place  is  strewn  and  hung  with  thank-offerings,  silver 
hearts,  shoes,  crutches,  and  I  know  not  what  else,  among  the 
pathetic  pictures  of  her  kindly  works.  The  picture  itself, 
loaded  now  with  jewellery,  is  apparently  a  work  of  the  thirteenth 
century ;  but  it  is  said  to  have  been  miraculously  brought 
hither  from  Negroponte.  It  was  found  at  Ardenza  close  by, 
by  a  shepherd,  who   carried  it   to   Montenero,  where,  as   I 


LIVORNO  133 

suppose,  he  lived ;  but  just  before  he  won  the  top  of  the  hill  it 
grew  so  heavy  he  had  to  set  it  down.  So  the  peasants  built 
a  shrine  for  it;  and  the  affair  getting  known,  the  Church 
inquired  into  it,  with  the  result  that  certainly  by  the 
fifteenth  century  the  shrine  was  in  charge  of  a  Religious 
Order ;  ^  to-day  the  monks  of  the  Vallombrosan  Benedictines 
serve  the  church. 

One  returns  always,  I  think,  with  regret  from  Montenero  to 
Livorno ;  yet,  after  all,  not  with  more  sadness  than  that  which 
always  accompanies  us  in  returning  from  the  country  to  any 
city,  howsoever  fair  and  lovely.  God  made  the  country ;  man 
made  the  town ;  and  though  in  Italy  both  God  and  man  have 
laboured  with  joy  and  done  better  here  than  anywhere  else 
in  the  world,  who  would  not  leave  the  loveliest  picture  to  look 
once  more  on  the  sky,  or  neglect  the  sweetest  music  if  he 
might  always  hear  the  sea,  or  give  up  praising  a  statue,  if  he 
might  always  look  on  his  beloved  ?  So  it  is  in  Italy,  where 
all  the  cities  are  fair ;  flowers  they  are  among  the  flowers ;  yet 
any  Tuscan  rose  is  fairer  far  than  ever  Pisa  was,  and  the 
lilies  of  Madonna  in  the  gardens  of  Settignano  are  more 
lovely  than  the  City  of  Flowers  :  come,  then,  let  us  leave  them 
for  the  wayside,  for  the  sun  and  the  dust  and  the  hills,  the 
flowers  beside  the  river,  the  villages  among  the  flowers.  For 
if  you  love  Italy  you  will  follow  the  road. 

'  Mr.  Carmichael  in  his  In  Tuscany  gives  an  account  of  this  picture, 
and  names  the  Orders  that  have  guarded  it. 


VIII 
TO  SAN  MINIATO  AL  TEDESCO 

THE  road  from  Pisa  to  Florence,  out  of  the  Porta 
Fiorentina,  to-day  the  greatest  gate  of  the  city,  passes 
at  first  across  the  Pisan  plain,  beside  Amo  though  not 
following  it  in  its  wayward  and  winding  course,  to  Cascina 
at  the  foot  of  those  hills,  behind  which  Lucca  is  hidden 
away :  Monti  Pisani 

"  Perche  i  Pisani  veder  Lucca  non  ponno." 

And  unlike  the  way  through  the  Pineta  to  the  sea,  the  road, 
so  often  trodden  by  the  victorious  armies  of  Florence,  is 
desolate  and  sombre,  while  beside  the  way  to-day  a  disused 
tramway  leads  to  Calci  in  the  hills.  On  either  side  of  this 
road,  so  deep  in  dust,  are  meadows  lined  with  bulrushes, 
while  there  lies  a  village,  here  a  lonely  church.  It  is  indeed 
a  rather  sombre  world  of  half-reclaimed  marshland  that 
Pisa  thus  broods  over,  in  which  the  only  landmarks  are  the 
far-away  hills,  the  smoke  of  a  village  not  so  far  away,  or  the 
tower  of  a  church  rising  among  these  fields  so  strangely 
green.  For  Pisa  herself  is  soon  lost  in  the  vagueness  of  a 
world  thus  delicately  touched  by  sun  and  cloud,  and  seemingly 
so  full  of  ruinous  or  deserted  things  like  the  beautiful  great 
Church  of  Settimo,  whose  tower  you  may  see  far  away  in  the 
golden  summer  weather  standing  quite  alone  in  a  curve  of  the 
river;  so  that  you  leave  the  highway  and  following  a  little 
by-road  come  upon  Pieve  di  S.  Cassiano,  a  basilica  in  the 
ancient  Pisan  manner  set  among  the  trees  in  a  shady  place, 
and  over  the  three  doors  of  the  facade  you  find  the  beautiful 

134 


TO  SAN  MINIATO  AL  TEDESCO         135 

work  of  Biduino  da  Pisa,  as  it  is  said,  sculptures  in  relief  of 
the  resurrection  of  Lazarus,  the  entry  of  Christ  into  Jerusalem, 
a  fight  of  dragons,  and  certain  subjects  from  the  Bestiaries. 

Another  lonely  church,  set,  not  at  the  end  of  a  byway  by 
the  river,  but  on  the  highroad  itself,  greets  you  as  you  enter 
Cascina.  It  is  the  Chiesa  della  Madonna  dell'  Acqua,  rebuilt 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  In  this  wide  plain  there  are  many 
churches,  some  of  them  of  a  great  antiquity,  as  S.  Jacopo  at 
Zambra  and  S.  Lorenzo  alle  Corti,  and  in  the  hills  you  may 
find  a  place  so  wonderful  as  the  Certosa  di  Calci,  a  monastery 
founded  in  1366,  but  altered  and  spoiled  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  the  marvellous  Church  of  S.  Giovanni  there. 
Cascina  itself  is  as  it  were  the  image  of  this  wide  flat  country 
between  the  hills  and  the  Maremma,  where  the  sun  has  so 
much  influence  and  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  drift  over  the 
fields  all  day  long,  and  the  mist  shrouds  the  evening  in  blue 
and  silver.  Desolate  and  sober  enough  on  a  day  of  rain, 
when  the  sun  shines  this  gaunt  outpost  of  Pisa,  for  it  is 
little  more,  is  as  gay  as  a  flower  by  the  wayside.  The  road 
runs  through  it,  giving  it  its  one  long  and  almost  straight 
street,  while  behind  the  poor  houses  that  have  so  little  to 
boast  of,  lies  a  beautiful  old  Piazza,  with  a  great  palace  seem- 
ingly deserted  on  one  side  and  an  old  tower  and  a  church 
with  a  beautiful  facade  on  another.  Always  a  prize  of  the 
enemy,  Cascina  in  the  Pisan  wars  fell  to  Lucca,  to  the  Guelph 
League,  and  to  Florence.  Its  old  walls,  battered  long  ago,  still 
remain  to  it,  so  that  from  afar,  from  the  Pisan  hills,  for  instance, 
it  looks  more  picturesque  than  in  fact  it  proves  to  be. 

The  high  road,  Via  Pisana,  as  it  is  still  called,  though, 
indeed,  it  was  more  often  the  way  of  the  Florentines,  some- 
times almost  deserted,  sometimes  noisy  with  peasants  return- 
ing from  market,  finds  the  river  again  at  Cascina  only  to  lose 
it,  however,  till  after  a  walk  of  some  five  miles  you  come  to 
Pontedera,  a  wild  and  miserable  place,  full  of  poor  and 
rebellious  people,  who  eye  you  with  suspicion  and  a  sort  of 
envy.  Yet  in  spite  of  the  proclamation  of  their  wretchedness, 
I  think  of  them  now  in  London,  as  fortunate.     At  least  upon 


136    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

them  the  sun  will  surely  shine  in  the  morning,  the  unsullied, 
infinite  night  will  fall ;  while  for  us  there  is  no  sun,  and  in  the 
night  the  many  are  too  unhappy  to  remember  even  that. 
There  in  Pontedera  they  preach  their  socialism,  and  none  is 
too  miserable  to  listen ;  these  poor  folk  have  been  told  they 
are  unhappy,  and,  indeed,  Pontedera  is  not  beautiful.  Yet  on 
a  market  day  you  may  see  the  whole  place  transformed.  It 
has  an  aspect  of  joy  that  lights  up  the  dreary  street.  All  day 
on  Friday  you  may  watch  them  at  their  little  stalls,  which 
litter  Via  Pisana  and  make  it  impassable.  You  might  think 
you  were  at  a  fair,  but  that  a  fair  in  England,  at  any  rate,  is 
not  so  gay.  All  along  the  highway  that  runs  through  the 
town  in  front  of  the  shops  and  the  inn  you  see  the  stalls  of 
the  crockery  merchants,  of  the  dealers  in  lace  and  stuffs,  of 
those  who  sell  macaroni  and  pasti,  and  of  those  who  sell 
mighty  umbrellas.  And  it  is  then,  I  think,  that  Pontedera  is 
at  her  best ;  life  which  ever  contrives  in  Italy  to  keep  some- 
thing of  a  gay  sanity,  disposing  for  that  day  at  least  of  the 
surliness  of  this  people,  who  are  very  poor,  and  far  from  any 
great  city. 

As  for  me,  I  left  Pontedera  with  all  speed,  being  intent  on 
Vico  Pisano,  a  fortress  built  by  Filippo  Brunellesco  for  the 
Republic  of  Florence,  after  the  fall  of  the  old  Pisan  Rocca  of 
Verruca,  on  the  hill-top.  There,  too,  if  we  may  believe  Villani,^ 
the  Marchese  Ugo  founded  a  monastery.  To-day  on  Monte 
della  Verruca  there  is  nothing  remaining  of  the  Rocca,  and 
the  monastery  is  a  heap  of  stones ;  but  in  Vico  Pisano  the 
fortifications  and  towers  of  Brunellesco  still  stand,  battered 
though  they  be, — gaunt  and  bitter  towers,  their  battlements 
broken,  the  walls  that  the  engines  of  old  time  have  battered, 
hung  now  with  iv)',  over  which,  all  silver  in  the  wind,  the 
ancient  olive  leans. 

Here,  where  the  creeping  ivy  has  hidden  the  old  wounds, 

and  the  oleanders  speak  of  the  living,  and  the  lilies  remind 

us  of  the  dead,  let  us,  too,  make  peace  in  our  hearts  and 

suffer  no  more  bitterness  for  the  fallen,  or  think  hardly  of  the 

'  See  p.  107. 


TO  SAN  MINIATO  AL  TEDESCO         137 

victor.  Florence,  too,  in  her  turn  suffered  slavery  and  oblivion  ; 
and  from  the  same  cause  as  her  own  victims,  because  she 
would  not  be  at  peace.  If  Pisa  fell,  it  was  just  and  right ;  for 
that  she  was  Ghibelline,  and  would  not  make  one  with  her 
sisters.  For  this  Siena  was  lopped  like  a  lily  on  her  hills,  and 
Lucca  pruned  like  her  own  olive  trees,  and  Pistoia  gathered 
in  the  plain.  This  Florence  stood  for  the  Guelph  cause  and 
for  the  future,  yet  she  too  in  her  turn  failed  in  love,  and  great 
though  she  was,  she  too  was  not  great  enough.  One  of  her 
sons,  seeing  her  power,  dreamed  of  the  unity  of  Italy,  and  for 
this  cause  followed  Cesare  Borgia ;  but  she  could  not  compass 
it,  and  so  fell  at  last  as  Pisa  fell,  as  Siena  fell,  as  all  must  fall 
who  will  not  be  at  one.  How  beautiful  these  old  towers  of 
Vico  Pisano  look  now  among  the  flowers,  yet  once  they  were 
cruel  enough :  men  defended  them  and  thought  nothing  of 
their  beauty,  and  time  has  spoiled  them  of  defence  and  left 
only  their  beauty  to  be  remembered.  For  the  ancients  of 
Pisa  have  met  for  the  last  time ;  the  signory  of  Florence 
plots  no  more ;  no  more  will  any  Emperor  with  the  pride  of  a 
barbarian,  the  mien  of  a  beggar  or  a  thief,  cross  the  Alps,  or 
such  an  one  as  Hawkwood  was  sell  his  prowess  for  a  bag  of 
silver  ;  and  if  the  ships  of  war  shall  ever  put  out  from  Genoa, 
they  will  be  the  ships  of  Italy.  For  she  who  slept  so  long  has 
awakened  at  last,  and  around  her  as  she  stands  on  the  Capitol, 
there  cluster  full  of  the  ancient  Latin  beauty  that  can  never 
die,  the  beautiful  cities  of  the  sea,  the  plain,  and  the  mountain, 
who  have  lost  life  for  her  sake,  to  find  it  in  her. 

It  is  a  long  road  of  some  fifteen  miles  from  Pontedera  to 
S.  Miniato  al  Tedesco :  a  hot  road  not  without  beauty  passing 
through  Rotta,  own  sister  to  Pontedera,  through  Castel  del 
Bosco,  only  a  dusty  village  now,  for  the  castello  is  gone 
which  guarded  the  confines  of  the  Republic  of  Pisa,  divided 
from  the  Republic  of  Florence  by  the  Chiecinella,  a  torrent  bed 
almost  without  water  in  the  summer  heat,  while  not  far  away 
on  the  southern  hills  Montopoli  thrusts  its  tower  into  the  sky, 
keeping  yet  its  ancient  Rocca,  once  in  the  power  of  the 
Bishops   of  Lucca,  but  later  in  the  hands  of  Florence,  an 


138    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

answer,  as  it  were,  to  Castel  del  Bosco  of  Pisa  in  the  land 
where  both  Pisa  and  Florence  were  on  guard.  There  is 
but  little  to  see  at  Montopoli,  just  two  old  churches  and  a 
picture  by  Cigoli ;  indeed  the  place  looks  its  best  from  afar ; 
and  then,  since  the  day  is  hot,  you  may  spend  a  pleasanter 
hour  in  S.  Romano  in  the  old  Franciscan  church  there,  which 
is  worth  a  visit  in  spite  of  its  modern  decorations,  and  is  full  of 
coolness  and  quiet.  It  was  afternoon  when  I  left  S.  Romano 
and  caught  sight  of  Castelfranco  far  away  to  the  north,  and 
presently  crossed  Evola  at  Pontevola,  and  already  sunset 
when  I  saw  the  beautiful  cypresses  of  Villa  Sonnino  and  the 
tower  of  S.  Miniato  came  in  sight  Slowly  in  front  of  me 
as  I  left  Ponocchio  a  great  ox  wagon  toiled  up  the  hill, 
winding  at  last  under  a  splendid  Piazza  fronted  with  flowers ; 
and  it  was  with  surprise  and  joy  that,  just  as  the  angelus  rang 
from  the  Duomo,  I  came  into  a  beautiful  city  that,  like  some 
forgotten  citadel  of  the  Middle  Age,  lay  on  the  hills  curved 
hke  the  letter  S,  smiling  in  the  silence  while  the  sun  set  at  the 
sound  of  her  bells. 

And  indeed  you  may  go  far  in  Tuscany,  covered  as  it  is 
to-day  by  the  trail  of  the  tourist,  before  you  will  find  anything 
so  fair  as  S.  Miniato.  Some  distance  from  the  railway,  five 
miles  from  Empoli,  half-way  between  Pisa  and  Florence,  it 
alone  seems  to  have  escaped  altogether  the  curiosity  of  the 
traveller,  for  even  the  few  who  so  wisely  rest  at  Empoli  come 
not  so  far  into  the  country  places. 

Lying  on  the  hills  under  the  old  tower  of  the  Rocca,  of 
which  nothing  else  remains,  S.  Miniato  is  itself,  as  it  were, 
a  weather-beaten  fortress,  that  was,  perhaps,  never  so  beautiful 
as  now,  when  no  one  keeps  watch  or  ward.  You  may  wander 
into  the  Duomo  and  out  again  into  the  cloistered,  narrow 
streets,  and  climbing  uphill,  pass  down  into  the  great 
gaunt  church  like  a  fortress,  S.  Domenico,  with  its  scrupu- 
lous frescoes,  and  though  you  will  see  many  wonderful 
and  some  delightful  things,  it  will  be  always  with  new  joy 
you  will  return  to  S.  Miniato  herself,  who  seems  to  await  you 
like  some  virgin  of  the  ages  of  faith,  that  age  has  not  been 


TO  SAN  MINIATO  AL  TEDESCO         139 

able  to  wither,  fresh  and  rosy  as  when  she  first  stood  on  the 
beautiful  hills.  Yet  unspoiled  as  she  is,  Otto  i  has  dwelt 
with  her,  she  was  a  stronghold  of  the  Emperors,  the  fortress 
of  the  Germans,  Frederick  Barbarossa  knew  her  well,  and 
Federigo  11  has  loved  her  and  hated  her,  for  here  he  spoke 
with  poets  and  made  a  few  songs,  and  here  he  blinded 
and  imprisoned  Messer  Piero  della  Vigna,  that  famous  poet 
and  wise  man,  accusing  him  of  treason.^  Was  it  that  he 
envied  him  his  verses  or  feared  his  wisdom,  or  did  he  indeed 
think  he  plotted  with  the  Pope  ?  Piero  della  Vigna  was  from 
Capua,  in  the  Kingdom ;  very  eloquent,  full  of  the  knowledge 
of  law,  the  Emperor  made  him  his  chancellor,  and  indeed 
gave  him  all  his  confidence,  so  that  his  influence  was  very 
great  with  a  man  who  must  have  been  easily  influenced  by 
his  friends.  Seeing  his  power,  others  about  the  Emperor, 
remembering  Piero's  low  condition,  no  doubt  sought  to  ruin 
him ;  and,  as  it  seems,  at  last  in  this  they  were  successful, 
forging  letters  to  prove  that  the  chancellor  trafficked  with  the 
Pope.  It  was  a  time  of  danger  for  Frederick ;  he  was  easily 
persuaded  of  Piero's  guilt,  and,  having  put  out  his  eyes,  he 
imprisoned  him.  Driven  to  despair  at  the  loss  of  that  fair 
world,  Piero  dashed  his  head  against  the  walls  of  his  prison, 
and  so  died.  Dante  meets  him  among  the  suicides  in  the 
seventh  circle  of  the  Inferno. 

But  the  Rocca  of  S.  Miniato,  as  it  is  said,  having  brought 
death  to  a  poet  and  housed  many  Emperors,  gave  birth  at 
last  to  the  greatest  soldier  of  the  fifteenth  century,  Francesco 
Sforza  himself,  he  who  made  himself  Duke  of  Milan  and 
whose  statue  Leonardo  set  himself  to  make,  on  which  the 
poets  carved  Ecce  Deus.  A  mere  fort,  perhaps,  in  its  origin, 
in  the  days  of  Federigo  11  the  Rocca  must  have  been  of  con- 
siderable strength,  size,  and  luxury,  dominating  as  it  did  the 
road  to  Florence  and  the  way  from  Siena :  and  then  even  in 

'  "  lo  son  colui  che  tenni  ambo  le  chiavi 
Del  cuor  di  Federigo  e  che  le  volsi 
Serrando  e  disserando  si  soavi 
Che  dal  segreto  suo  cjuasi  ogni  uom  tolsi." 


140    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

its  early  days  it  was  a  stronghold  of  the  German  foreigner, 
from  which  he  dominated  the  Latins  round  about,  and  not 
least  the  people  of  S.  Miniato.  Like  all  the  Tuscans,  they 
could  not  bear  the  yoke,  and  they  fled  into  the  valley  to 
S.  Genesio :  soon  to  return,  however,  for  the  people  of  the 
plain  liked  them  as  little  as  he  of  the  tower.  This  exodus 
is,  as  it  were,  commemorated  in  the  dedication  of  the  Duomo 
to  S.  Maria  e  a  S.  Genesio.  The  church  is  not  very  interest- 
ing; some  fragments  of  the  old  pulpit  or  ambone,  where  you 
may  see  in  relief  the  Annunciation  and  a  coat  of  arms  with 
a  boar  and  an  inscription,  are  of  the  thirteenth  century.  It 
is,  however,  in  S.  Domenico,  not  far  away,  that  what  remains 
to  S.  Miniato  of  her  art  treasures  will  be  found.  Everyone 
seems  to  call  the  church  S.  Domenico,  but  in  truth  it  belongs 
to  S.  Jacopo  and  S.  Lucia.  As  in  many  another  Tuscan  city, 
it  guards  one  side  of  S.  Miniato,  while  S.  Francesco  watches 
on  the  other,  as  though  to  befriend  all  who  may  pass  by. 
S.  Domenico  was  founded  in  1330,  but  it  has  suffered  much 
since  then.  The  chapels,  built  by  the  greatest  families  of  the 
city,  in  part  remain  beautiful  with  the  fourteenth  -  century 
work  of  the  school  of  Gaddi  and  of  some  pupil  of  Angelico ; 
but  it  is  a  work  of  the  fifteenth  century  by  some  master  of 
the  Florentine  school  that  chiefly  delights  us.  For  there  you 
may  see  Madonna,  her  sweet,  ambiguous  face  neither  happy 
nor  sad,  with  the  Prince  of  Life  in  her  lap,  while  on  the  one 
side  stand  S.  Sebastian  and  St.  John  Baptist,  and  on  the  other 
perhaps  S.  Jacopo  and  S.  Roch.  Below  the  donors  kneel 
a  man  and  his  wife  and  little  daughter,  while  in  the  predella 
you  see  our  Lord's  birth,  baptism,  and  condemnation.  Alto- 
gether lovely,  in  that  eager  yet  dry  manner,  a  little  uncertain 
of  its  own  dainty  humanism,  this  picture  alone  is  worth  the 
journey  to  S.  Miniato.  Yet  how  much  else  remains — a  tomb 
attributed  to  Donatello  in  this  very  chapel,  a  lovely  terra-cotta 
of  the  Annunciation  given  to  Giovanni  della  Robbia,  and 
indeed,  not  to  speak  of  S.  Francesco  with  its  spaciousness 
and  delicate  light,  and  the  Palazzo  Comunale,  with  its  frescoed 
Sala  del  Consiglio,  there  is  S.  Miniato  itself,  full  of  flowers 


TO  SAN  MINIATO  AL  TEDESCO  141 

and  the  wind.  Like  a  city  of  a  dream,  at  dawn  she  rises 
out  of  the  mists  of  the  valley  pure  and  beautiful  upon  her 
winding  hills  that  look  both  north  and  south ;  cool  at  midday 
and  very  still,  hushed  from  all  sounds,  she  sleeps  in  the  sun, 
while  her  old  tower  tells  the  slow,  languorous  hours ;  golden 
at  evening,  the  sunset  ebbs  through  her  streets  to  the  far-away 
sea,  till  she  sinks  like  some  rosy  lily  into  the  night  that  for 
her  is  full  of  familiar  silences  peopled  by  splendid  dreams. 
Then  there  come  to  her  shadows  innumerable — Otto  i,  Frederick 
Barbarossa,  Federigo  11,  poor  blinded  Piero  della  Vigna,  singing 
his  songs,  and  those  that  we  have  forgotten.  The  ruined 
dream  of  Germany,  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  the  resurrection 
of  the  Latin  race — she  has  seen  them  all  rise,  and  two  of  them 
she  helped  to  shatter  for  ever.  It  is  not  only  in  her  golden 
book  that  she  may  read  of  splendour  and  victory,  but  in  the 
sleeping  valley  and  the  whisper  of  her  olives,  the  simple  song 
of  the  husbandman  among  the  com,  the  Italian  voices  in  the 
vineyard  at  dawn  :  let  her  sleep  after  the  old  hatred,  hushed 
by  this  homely  music. 


IX 

EMPOLI,  MONTELUPO,  LASTRA, 
SIGNA 

IT  is  but  four  miles  down  the  hillside  and  through  the 
valley  along  Via  Pisana  to  Empoli  in  the  plain.  And  in 
truth  that  way,  difficult  enough  at  midday — for  the  dusty  road 
is  full  of  wagons  and  oxen — is  free  enough  at  dawn,  though 
every  step  thereon  takes  you  farther  from  the  hills  of 
S.  Miniato.  Empoli,  which  you  come  to  not  without  pre- 
paration, is  like  a  deserted  market-place,  a  deserted  market- 
place that  has  been  found,  and  put  once  more  to  its  old  use. 
Set  as  it  is  in  the  midst  of  the  plain  beside  Arno  on  the  way 
to  Florence,  on  the  way  to  Siena,  amid  the  villages  and  the 
cornfields,  it  was  the  Granary  of  the  Republic  of  Florence,  its 
very  name,  may  be,  being  derived  from  the  word  Emporium, 
which  in  fact  it  was.  Not  less  important  perhaps  to-day 
than  of  old,  its  new  villas,  its  strangely  busy  streets,  its  cosy 
look  of  importance  and  comfort  there  in  the  waste  of  plain, 
serve  to  hide  any  historical  importance  it  may  have,  so  that 
those  who  come  here  are  content  for  the  most  part  to  go  no 
farther  than  the  railway  station,  where  on  the  way  from  Pisa 
or  from  Florence  they  must  change  carriages  for  Siena.  And 
indeed,  for  her  history,  it  differs  but  little  from  that  of  other 
Tuscan  towns  within  reach  of  a  great  city.  Yet  for  Empoli, 
as  her  Saint  willed,  there  waited  a  destiny.  For  after  the  rout 
of  the  Guelphs,  and  especially  of  Florence,  the  head  and  front 
of  that  cause  at  Montaperti,  when  in  all  Tuscany  only  Lucca 
remained  free,  and  the  Florentine  refugees  built  the  loggia  in 
front  of  S.  Friano,  there  the  Ghibellines  of  Tuscany  proposed 

142 


EMPOLI,  MONTELUPO,  LASTRA,  SIGNA     143 

to  destroy  utterly  and  for  ever  the  City  of  the  Lily,  and  for 
this  cause  Count  Giordano  and  the  rest  caused  a  council  to 
be  held  at  Empoli ;  and  so  it  happened.  Now  Count  Gior- 
dano, Villani  tells  us,  was  sent  for  by  King  Manfred  to  Apulia, 
and  there  was  proclaimed  as  his  vicar  and  captain,  Count 
Guido  Novello  of  the  Counts  Guidi  of  Casentino,  who  had 
forsaken  the  rest  of  the  family,  which  stood  for  the  Guelph  cause. 
This  man  was  eager  to  fling  every  Guelph  out  of  Tuscany. 
There  were  assembled  at  that  council  all  the  cities  round 
about,  and  the  Counts  Guidi  and  the  Counts  Alberti,  and 
those  of  Santafiore  and  the  Ubaldini,  and  these  were  all 
agreed  that  for  the  sake  of  the  Ghibelline  cause  Florence 
must  be  destroyed,  "and  reduced  to  open  villages,  so  that 
there  might  remain  to  her  no  renown  or  fame  or  power." 
It  was  then  that  Farinata  degli  Uberti,  though  a  Ghibelline 
and  an  exile,  rose  to  oppose  this  design,  saying  that  if  there 
remained  no  other,  whilst  he  lived  he  would  defend  the  city, 
even  with  his  sword.  Then,  says  Villani,  "  Count  Giordano, 
seeing  what  manner  of  man  he  was,  and  of  how  great  authority, 
and  how  the  Ghibelline  party  might  be  broken  up  and  come 
to  blows,  abandoned  the  design  and  took  new  counsel,  so 
that  by  one  good  man  and  citizen  our  city  of  Florence  was 
saved  from  so  great  fury,  destruction,  and  ruin."  But  Florence 
was  ever  forgetful  of  her  greatest  sons,  and  Farinata's  praise 
was  not  found  in  her  mouth,  but  in  that  of  her  greatest  exile, 
who,  finding  him  in  his  fiery  tomb,  wishes  him  rest. 

"  Deh  se  riposi  mai  vostra  semenza 
Prega  io  lui." 

To-day,  however,  in  Empoli  the  long  days  are  unbroken  by 
the  whisperings  from  any  council ;  and  as  though  to  mark 
the  fact  that  all  are  friends  at  last,  if  you  come  to  her  at 
all,  you  will  sleep  at  the  Aquila  Nera  in  the  street  of  the 
Lily ;  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  hate  no  more.  And  as  though 
to  prove  to  man,  ever  more  mindful  of  war  than  peace,  that 
it  is  only  the  works  of  love  after  all  that  abide  for  ever,  in 
Empoli    at    least    scarcely    anything    remains    from    the    old 


144    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

beloved  days  save  the  churches,  and,  best  of  all,  the  pictures 
that  were  painted  for  them. 

You  pass  the  Church  of  S.  Maria  a  Ripa  just  before 
you  enter  the  city  by  the  beautiful  Porta  Pisana,  but  though 
you  may  find  some  delightful  works  of  della  Robbia  ware 
there,  especially  a  S.  Lucia,  it  is  in  the  CoUegiata  di  S.  Andrea, 
in  the  lovely  Piazza  Farinata  degli  Uberti,  that  most  of  the 
works  have  been  gathered  in  some  of  the  rooms  of  the  old 
college.  The  church  itself  is  very  interesting,  with  its 
beautiful  fagade  in  the  manner  of  the  Badia  at  Fiesole,  where 
you  may  see  carved  on  either  side  of  the  great  door  the 
head  of  S.  Andrea  and  of  St.  John  Baptist, 

In  the  Baptistery,  however,  comes  your  first  surprise,  a 
beautiful  fresco,  a  pietk  attributed  to  Masolino  da  Panicale, 
where  Christ  is  laid  in  the  tomb  by  Madonna  and  St.  John, 
while  behind  rises  the  Cross,  on  which  hangs  a  scourge  of 
knotted  chords.  And  then  in  the  second  chapel  on  the 
right  is  a  lovely  Sienese  Madonna,  and  a  strange  fresco  on 
the  left  wall  of  men  taming  bulls. 

In  the  gallery  itself  a  few  lovely  things  have  been  gathered 
together,  of  which  certainly  the  finest  are  the  angels  of 
Botticini,  two  children  winged  and  crowned  with  roses, 
dressed  in  the  manner  of  the  fifteenth  century,  with  purfled 
skirts  and  slashed  sleeves  powdered  with  flowers,  who  bow 
before  the  S,  Sebastian  of  Rossellino.  Two  other  works 
attributed  to  Botticini,  certainly  not  less  lovely,  are  to  be 
found  here :  an  Annunciation  in  the  manner  of  his  master 
Verrocchio,  where  Mary  sits,  a  delicate  white  girl,  under  a 
portico  into  which  Gabriele  has  stolen  at  sunset  and  found 
her  at  prayer ;  far  away  the  tall  cypresses  are  black  against 
the  gold  of  the  sky,  and  in  the  silence  it  almost  seems  as 
though  we  might  overhear  the  first  Angelus  and  the  very 
message  from  the  angel's  lips.  And  if  this  is  the  Annunciation 
as  it  happened  long  ago  in  Tuscany,  in  heaven  the  angels 
danced  for  sure,  thinking  of  our  happiness,  as  Botticini  knew ; 
and  so  he  has  painted  those  seven  angels  playing  various 
instruments,  while  about  their  feet  he  has  strewn  a  song  of 


EMPOLI,  MONTELUPO,  LASTRA,  SIGNA     145 

songs.  A  S.  Andrea  and  St.  John  Baptist  in  a  great  fifteenth- 
century  altar  are  also  given  to  him,  while  below  you  may  see 
S.  Andrea's  crucifixion,  the  Last  Supper,  and  Salome  bringing 
the  head  of  St.  John  Baptist  to  Herodias  at  her  supper  with 
Herod.  Some  fine  della  Robbia  fragments  and  a  beautiful 
relief  of  the  Madonna  and  Child  by  Mino  da  Fiesole  are 
among  the  rest  of  the  treasures  of  the  CoUegiata,  where  you 
may  find  much  that  is  merely  old  or  curious.  Other  churches 
there  are  in  Empoli,  S.  Stefano,  for  instance,  with  a  Madonna 
and  two  angels,  given  to  Masolino,  and  the  marvellously 
lovely  Annunciation  by  Bernardo  Rossellino ;  and  S.  Maria 
di  Fuori,  with  its  beautiful  loggia,  but  they  will  not  hold 
you  long.  The  long  white  road  calls  you ;  already  far  away 
you  seem  to  see  the  belfries  of  Florence  there,  where  they 
look  into  Arno,  for  the  very  water  at  your  feet  has  held  in 
its  bosom  the  fairest  tower  in  the  world,  whiter  than  a  lily, 
rosier  than  the  roses  of  the  hills.  With  this  dream,  dream 
or  remembrance,  in  your  heart,  it  is  not  Empoli  with 
its  brown  country  face  that  will  entice  you  from  the 
way.  And  so,  a  little  weary  at  last  for  the  shadows  of  the 
great  city,  it  was  with  a  sort  of  impatience  I  trudged  the 
dusty  highway,  eager  for  every  turn  of  the  road  that  might 
bring  the  tall  towers,  far  and  far  away  though  they  were,  into 
sight.  Somewhat  in  this  mood,  still  early  in  the  morning, 
I  passed  through  Pontormo,  the  birthplace  of  the  sixteenth- 
century  painter  Jacopo  Carrucci,  who  has  his  name  from  this 
little  town.  Two  or  three  pictures  that  he  painted,  a  lovely 
font  of  the  fourteent  Chentury  in  the  church  of  S.  Michele 
Arcangiolo,  called  for  no  more  than  a  halt,  for  there,  still  far 
away  before  me,  were  the  hills,  the  hills  that  hid  Florence 
herself. 

It  was  already  midday  when  I  came  to  the  little  city  of 
Montelupo  at  the  foot  of  these  hills,  and,  in  front  of  a  beautiful 
avenue  of  plane  trees,  to  the  trattoria,  a  humble  place  enough, 
and  full  at  that  hour  of  drivers  and  countrymen,  but  quite 
sufficient  for  my  needs,  for  I  found  there  food,  a  good 
wine,  and  courtesy.  Later,  in  the  afternoon,  climbing  the 
10 


146    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

stony  street  across  Pesa,  I  came  to  the  Church  of  S.  Giovanni 
Evangelista,  and  there  in  the  sweet  country  silence  was 
Madonna  with  her  Son  and  four  Saints,  by  Sandro  Botticelli. 

It  is  not  any  new  vision  of  Madonna  you  will  see  in  that 
quiet  country  church,  full  of  afternoon  sunshine  and  wayside 
flowers,  but  the  same  half-weary  maiden  of  whom  Botticelli 
has  told  us  so  often,  whose  honour  is  too  great  for  her,  whose 
destiny  is  more  than  she  can  bear.  Already  she  has  been 
overwhelmed  by  our  praise  and  petitions ;  she  has  closed  her 
eyes,  she  has  turned  away  her  head,  and  while  the  Jesus 
Parvulus  lifts  his  tiny  hands  in  blessing,  she  is  indifferent, 
holding  Him  languidly,  as  though  but  half  attentive  to  those 
priceless  words  which  St  John,  with  the  last  light  of  a  smile 
still  lingering  round  his  eyes,  notes  so  carefully  in  his 
book.  Something  of  the  same  eagerness,  graver,  and  more 
youthful,  you  may  see  in  the  figure  of  St.  Sebastian,  who, 
holding  three  arrows  daintily  in  his  hand,  has  suddenly  looked 
up  at  the  sound  of  that  Divine  childish  voice.  Two  other 
figures,  S.  Lorenzo  and  perhaps  S.  Cristofero,  listen  with  a 
sort  of  intent  sadness  there  under  that  splendid  portico,  where 
Mary  sits  on  a  throne,  she  who  was  the  carpenter's  wife,  with 
so  little  joy  or  even  surprise.  Below,  in  the  predella,  you  may 
see  certain  saints'  heads,  with  dancing  satyrs  between  them, 
the  presentation  in  the  Temple,  the  death  of  S.  Lorenzo, 
the  risen  Christ. 

But  though  Montelupo  possesses  such  a  treasure  as  this 
picture,  for  me  at  least  the  fairest  thing  within  her  keeping 
is  the  old  fortress,  ruined  now,  on  her  high  hill,  and  the  view 
one  may  have  thence.  For,  following  that  stony  way  which 
brought  me  to  S.  Giovanni,  I  came  at  last  to  the  walls  of  an 
old  fortress,  that  now  houses  a  few  peasants,  and  turning  there 
saw  all  the  Val  d'Amo,  from  S.  Miniato  far  and  far  away  to  the 
west,  to  little  Vinci  on  the  north,  where,  as  Vasari  says, 
Leonardo  was  born ;  while  below  me,  beside  Amo,  rose  the 
beautiful  villa  of  Ambrogi,  with  its  four  towers  at  the  corners ; 
and  then  on  a  hill  before  me,  not  far  away,  a  little  town 
nestling  round  another  fortress,  maybe  less  dilapidated  than 


EMPOLI,  MONTELUPO,  LASTRA,  SIGNA     147 

Montelupo,  Capraja,  that  goat  which  caused  Montelupo  to 
be  built.  For  in  the  days  when  Florence  disputed  Val 
d'Amo  and  the  plains  of  Empoli  with  many  nobles,  the  Conti 
di  Capraja  lorded  it  here,  and,  as  the  Florentines  said : 

"Ter  distrugger  questa  capra  non  ci  vuole  un  lupo." 

To-day  Montelupo  is  but  a  village ;  yet  once  it  was  of  import- 
ance, not  only  as  a  fortress,  for  that  she  ceased  to  be  almost 
when  the  Counts  of  Capraja  were  broken,  and  certainly  by  1 203, 
when  Villari  tells  us  that  the  Florentines  destroyed  the  place 
because  it  would  not  obey  the  commonwealth ;  but  as  a  city 
of  art,  or  at  any  rate  of  a  beautiful  handicraft.  Even  to-day 
the  people  devote  themselves  to  pottery,  but  of  old  it  was 
not  merely  a  matter  of  commerce,  but  of  beauty  and  crafts- 
manship. 

It  was  through  a  noisy  gay  crowd  of  these  folk,  the  young 
men  lounging  against  the  houses,  the  girls  talking,  talking 
together,  arm  in  arm,  as  they  went  to  and  fro  before  them, 
with  a  wonderful  sweet  air  of  indifference  to  those  who  eyed 
them  so  keenly  and  yet  shyly  too,  and  without  anything  of 
the  brutal  humour  of  a  northern  village,  that  in  the  later 
afternoon  I  again  sought  the  highway.  And  before  I  had 
gone  a  mile  upon  my  road  the  whole  character  of  the  way  was 
changed ;  no  longer  was  I  crossing  a  great  plain,  but  winding 
among  the  hills,  while  Arno,  noisier  than  before,  fled  past  me 
in  an  ever  narrower  bed  among  the  rocks  and  buttresses  of 
what  soon  became  little  more  than  a  defile  between  the  hills. 
Though  the  road  was  deep  in.  dust,  there  was  shadow  under 
the  cypresses  beside  the  way,  there  was  a  whisper  of  wind 
among  the  reeds  beside  the  river,  and  the  song  of  the  cicale 
grew  fainter  and  the  hills  were  touched  with  light ;  evening 
was  coming. 

And  indeed,  when  at  last  I  had  left  the  splendid  villa  of 
Antinori  far  behind,  evening  came  as  I  entered  Lastra,  and 
by  chance  taking  the  wrong  road,  passing  under  a  most 
splendid  ilex,  huge  as  a  temple,  I  climbed  the  hill  to  S.  Martino 
a  Gangelandi.     Standing  there  in  the  pure  calm  light  just  after 


148    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

sunset,  the  whole  valley  of  Florence  lay  before  me.  To  the  right 
stood  Signa,  piled  on  her  hill  like  some  fortress  of  the  Middle 
Age ;  then  Amo,  like  a  road  of  silver,  led  past  the  Villa  di 
Selve  to  the  great  mountain  Monte  Morello,  and  there  under 
her  last  spurs  lay  Florence  herself,  clear  and  splendid  like 
some  dream  city,  her  towers  and  pinnacles,  her  domes  and 
churches  shining  in  the  pure  evening  light  like  some  delect- 
able city  seen  in  a  vision  far  away,  but  a  reality,  and  seen  at 
last.  Very  far  off  she  seemed  in  that  clear  light,  that  presently 
fading  fled  away  across  the  mountains  before  the  advance  of 
night,  that  presently  filled  the  whole  plain  with  its  vague  and 
beautiful  shadow. 

And  so,  when  morning  was  come,  I  went  again  to  S. 
Martino  a  Gangelandi,  but  Florence  was  hidden  in  light. 
In  my  heart  I  knew  I  must  seek  her  at  once,  that  even  the 
fairest  things  were  not  fair,  since  she  was  hidden  away.  Not 
without  a  sort  of  reluctance  I  heard  Mass  in  S.  Martino,  spent 
a  moment  before  the  beautiful  Madonna  of  that  place,  a 
picture  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  looked  upon  the  fortifica- 
tions of  Brunellesco.  Everywhere  the  women  sitting  in  their 
doorways  were  plaiting  straw,  and  presently  I  came  upon  a 
whole  factory  of  this  craft,  the  great  courtyard  strewn  with 
hats  of  all  shapes,  sizes,  and  colours,  drying  in  the  sun.  Signa, 
too,  across  the  river  as  I  passed,  seemed  to  be  given  up  to  this 
business.  Then  taking  the  road,  hot  and  dusty,  I  set  out — not 
by  Via  Pisana,  but  by  the  byways,  which  seemed  shorter — for 
Florence.  For  long  I  went  between  the  vines,  in  the  misty 
morning,  all  of  silver  and  gold,  till  I  was  weary.  And  at  last 
houses  began  to  strew  the  way,  herds  of  goats  led  by  an  old 
man  in  velveteen  and  a  lad  in  tatters,  one  herd  after  another 
covered  me  with  dust,  or,  standing  in  front  of  the  houses,  were 
milked  at  the  doorways,  where  still  the  women,  their  brown  legs 
naked  in  the  sun,  plaited  the  straw.  Then  at  a  turning  of  the 
way,  as  though  to  confirm  me  in  any  fears  I  might  have  of  the 
destruction  of  the  city  I  had  come  so  far  to  see,  a  light 
railway  turned  into  the  highway  between  the  houses,  where 
already  there  was  not  room  for  two  carts  to  pass.     How  may 


EMPOLI,  MONTELUPO,  LASTRA,  SIGNA     149 

I  tell  my  anger  and  misery  as  I  passed  through  that  endless 
suburb,  the  great  hooting  engine  of  the  train  venting  its  stench, 
and  smoke,  and  noise  into  the  very  windows  of  the  houses, 
chasing  me  down  the  narrow  way,  round  intricate  corners,  over 
tiny  piazzas,  from  the  very  doors  of  churches.  Yet,  utterly 
weary  at  last,  covered  with  dust,  it  was  in  this  brutal  contri- 
vance that  I  sought  refuge,  and  after  an  hour  of  agony  was  set 
down  before  the  Porta  al  Prato.  The  bells  were  ringing  the 
Angelus  of  midday  when  I  came  into  Florence. 


FLORENCE 

FLORENCE  is  like  a  lily  in  the  midst  of  a  garden  gay 
with  wild-flowers ;  a  broken  lily  that  we  have  tied  up 
and  watered  and  nursed  into  a  semblance  of  life,  an  image  of 
ancient  beauty — as  it  were  the  memento  mori  of  that  Latin 
spirit  which  contrived  the  Renaissance  of  mankind.  As  of 
old,  so  to-day,  she  stands  in  the  plain  at  the  foot  of  the 
Apennines,  that  in  their  sweetness  and  strength  lend  her  still 
something  of  their  nobility.  Around  her  are  the  hills 
covered  with  olive  gardens  where  the  com  and  the  wine  and 
the  oil  grow  together  between  the  iris  and  the  rose;  and 
everywhere  on  those  beautiful  hills  there  are  villas  among  the 
flowers,  real  villas  such  as  Alberti  describes  for  us,  full  of 
coolness  and  rest,  where  a  fountain  splashes  in  an  old  court- 
yard, and  the  grapes  hang  from  the  pergolas,  and  the  com  is 
spread  in  July  and  beaten  with  the  flail.  And  since  the 
vista  of  every  street  in  Florence  ends  in  the  country,  it  is  to 
these  hills  you  find  your  way  very  often  if  your  stay  be  long, 
fleeing  from  the  city  herself,  perhaps  to  hide  your  disappoint- 
ment, in  the  simple  joy  of  country  life.  More  and  more  as  you 
live  in  Florence  that  country  life  becomes  your  consolation  and 
your  delight :  for  there  abide  the  old  ways  and  the  ancient 
songs,  which  you  will  not  find  in  the  city.  And  indeed  the 
great  treasure  of  Florence  is  this  bright  and  smiling  country  in 
which  she  lies :  the  old  road  to  Fiesole,  the  ways  that  lead 
from  Settignano  to  Compiobbi,  the  path  through  the  woods 
from  S.  Martino  a  Mensola,  that  smiling  church  by  the 
wayside,  to  Vincigliata,  to  Castel  di  Poggio,  the  pilgrimage 

150 


FLORENCE  151 

from  Bagno  a  Ripoli  to  the  Incontro.  There,  on  all 
those  beautiful  gay  roads,  you  will  pass  numberless  villas 
whispering  with  summer,  laughing  with  flowers ;  you  will  see 
the  contadini  at  work  in  the  poderi,  you  will  hear  the 
rispetti  and  stornelli  of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries 
sung  perhaps  by  some  love -sick  peasant  girl  among  the 
olives  from  sunrise  till  evening  falls.  And  the  ancient  ways 
are  not  forgotten  there,  for  they  still  reap  with  the  sickle  and 
sing  to  the  beat  of  the  flail ;  while  the  land  itself,  those  places 
"full  of  nimble  air,  in  a  laughing  country  of  sweet  and 
lovely  views,  where  there  is  always  fresh  water,  and  everything 
is  healthy  and  pure,"  of  which  Leon  Alberti  tells  us,  are  still 
held  and  cultivated  in  the  old  way  under  the  old  laws  by  the 
contadino  and  his  padrone.  This  ancient  order,  quietness,  and 
beauty,  which  you  may  find  everywhere  in  the  country  round 
about  Florence,  is  the  true  Tuscany.  The  vulgarity  of  the 
city,  for  even  in  Italy  the  city  life  has  become  insincere, 
blatant,  and  for  the  most  part  a  life  of  the  middle  class, 
seldom  reaches  an  hundred  yards  beyond  the  barriera :  and 
this  is  a  charm  in  Florence,  for  you  may  so  easily  look  on  her 
from  afar.  And  so,  if  one  comes  to  her  from  the  country,  or 
returns  to  her  from  her  own  hills,  it  is  ever  with  a  sense  of 
loss,  of  sadness,  of  regret :  she  has  lost  her  soul  for  the 
sake  of  the  stranger,  she  has  forgotten  the  splendid  past 
for  an  ignoble  present,  a  strangely  wearying  dream  of  the 
future. 

Yet  for  all  her  modern  ways,  her  German  beer-houses,  her 
English  tea-shops,  her  noisy  trams  on  Lung'  Arno,  her  air  as 
of  a  museum,  her  eagerness  to  show  her  contempt  for  the 
stranger  while  she  sells  him  her  very  soul  for  money,  Florence 
remains  one  of  the  most  delightful  cities  of  Italy  to  visit,  to 
live  with,  to  return  to  again  and  again.  Yet  I  for  one  would 
never  live  within  her  walls  if  I  could  help  it,  or  herd  with  those 
barbarian  exclamatory  souls  who  in  guttural  German  or 
cockney  English  snort  or  neigh  at  the  beauties  industriously 
pointed  out  by  a  loud-voiced  cicerone,  quoting  in  American 
all  the  appropriate  quotations.  Browning  before  Filippo  Lippi, 


152    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Ruskin  in  S.  Croce,  Mrs.  Browning  at  the  door  of  S.  Felice, 
Goethe  everywhere. 

No,  I  will  live  a  little  way  out  of  the  city  on  the  hillside, 
perhaps  towards  Settignano,  not  too  far  from  the  pine  woods, 
nor  too  near  the  gate.  And  my  garden  there  shall  be  a 
vineyard,  bordered  with  iris,  and  among  the  vines  shall  be  a 
garden  of  olives,  and  under  the  olives  there  shall  be  the  com. 
And  the  yellow  roses  will  litter  the  courtyard,  and  the  fountain 
shall  be  full  of  their  petals,  and  the  red  roses  shall  strew  the 
paths,  and  the  white  roses  shall  fall  upon  the  threshold ;  and 
all  day  long  the  bees  will  linger  in  the  passion-flowers  by  the 
window  when  the  mulberry  trees  have  been  stripped  of  leaves, 
and  the  lilies  of  Madonna,  before  the  vines,  are  tall  and  like 
ghosts  in  the  night,  the  night  that  is  blue  and  gold,  where  a 
few  fire-flies  linger  yet,  sailing  faintly  over  the  stream,  and  the 
song  of  the  cicale  is  the  burden  of  endless  summer.  Then 
very  early  in  the  morning  I  will  rise  from  my  bed  under  the 
holy  branch  of  olive,  I  will  walk  in  my  garden  before  the  sun 
is  high,  I  will  look  on  my  beloved  city.  Yes,  I  shall  look  over 
the  near  olives  across  the  valley  to  the  hill  of  cypresses,  to  the 
poplars  beside  Amo  that  tremble  with  joy  ;  and  first  I  shall  see 
Torre  del  Gallo  and  then  S.  Miniato,  that  strange  and  beautiful 
place,  and  at  last  my  eyes  will  rest  on  the  city  herself,  beautiful 
in  the  mist  of  morning  :  first  the  tower  of  S.  Croce,  like  a  tufted 
spear ;  then  the  tower  of  Liberty,  and  that  was  built  for  pride ; 
and  at  last,  like  a  mysterious  rose  lifted  above  the  city,  I  shall 
see  the  dome,  the  rosy  dome  of  Brunellesco,  beside  which,  like 
a  slim  lily,  pale,  immaculate  as  a  pure  virgin,  rises  the  inviolate 
Tower  of  the  Lowly,  that  Giotto  built  for  God.  Yes,  often  I 
shall  thus  await  the  Angelus  that  the  bells  of  all  the  villages 
will  answer,  and  I  shall  greet  the  sun  and  be  thankful.  Then 
I  shall  walk  under  the  olives,  I  shall  weigh  the  promised 
grapes,  I  shall  bend  the  ears  of  corn  here  and  there,  that  I 
may  feel  their  beauty,  and  I  shall  bury  my  face  in  the  roses,  I 
shall  watch  the  lilies  turn  their  heads,  I  shall  pluck  the 
lemons  one  by  one.  And  the  maidens  will  greet  me  on  their 
way  to  the  olive  gardens,  the  newly-married,  hand  in  hand 


FLORENCE  153 

with  her  husband,  will  smile  upon  me,  she  who  is  heavy  with 
child  will  give  me  her  blessing,  and  the  children  will  laugh 
and  peep  at  me  from  behind  the  new-mown  hay;  and  I 
shall  give  them  greeting.  And  I  shall  talk  with  him  who  is 
busy  in  the  vineyard,  I  shall  watch  him  bare-foot  among  the 
grapes,  I  shall  see  his  wise  hands  tenderly  unfold  a  leaf  or 
gather  up  a  straying  branch,  and  when  I  leave  him  I  shall  hear 
him  say,  "  May  your  bread  be  blessed  to  you."  Under  the 
myrtles,  on  a  table  of  stone  spread  with  coarse  white  linen, 
such  we  see  in  Tuscany,  I  shall  break  my  fast,  and  I  shall  spill 
a  little  milk  on  the  ground  for  thankfulness,  and  the  crumbs 
I  shall  scatter  too,  and  a  little  honey  that  the  bees  have  given 
I  shall  leave  for  them  again. 

So  I  shall  go  into  the  city,  and  one  will  say  to  me,  "  The 
Signore  must  have  a  care,  for  the  sun  will  be  hot,  in  return- 
ing it  will  be  necessary  to  come  under  the  olives."  And  I  shall 
laugh  in  my  heart,  and  say,  "  Have  no  fear,  then,  for  the  sun 
will  not  touch  me."  And  how  should  I  but  be  glad  that  the 
sun  will  be  hot,  and  how  should  I  but  be  thankful  that  I  shall 
come  under  the  olives  ? 

And  I  shall  come  into  the  city  by  Porta  alia  Croce  for  love, 
because  I  am  but  newly  returned,  and  presently  through  the 
newer  ways  I  shall  come  to  the  oldest  of  all,  Borgo  degli  Albizzi, 
where  the  roofs  of  the  beautiful  palaces  almost  touch,  and  the 
way  is  cool  and  full  of  shadow.  There,  amid  all  the  hurry  and 
bustle  of  the  narrow  splendid  way,  I  shall  think  only  of  old 
things  for  a  time,  I  shall  remember  the  great  men  who 
founded  and  established  the  city,  I  shall  recall  the  great 
families  of  Florence.  Here  in  this  Borgo  the  Albizzi  built 
their  towers  when  they  came  from  Arezzo,  giving  the  city  more 
than  an  hundred  officers,  Priori  and  Gonfalonieri,  till  Cosimo 
de'  Medici  thrust  them  out  with  the  help  of  Eugenius  iv. 
The  grim,  scornful  figure  of  Rinaldo  seems  to  haunt  the  old 
palace  still.  How  often  in  those  September  days  must  he 
have  passed  to  and  fro  between  his  palace  and  the  Bargello 
close  by,  the  Palace  of  the  Podestll :  but  the  people,  fearing 
they  knew  not  what,  barricaded  the  place  so  that  Rinaldo  was 


154     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

persuaded  to  consult  with  the  Pope  in  the  S.  Maria  Novella. 
At  dawn  he  dismissed  his  army,  and  remained  alone.  Then 
the  friends  of  Cosimo  in  exile  went  to  the  Pope  and  thanked 
him,  thus,  as  some  have  thought,  surprising  him  into  an 
abandonment  of  Rinaldo.  However  that  may  be,  Rinaldo 
was  expelled,  leaving  the  city  with  these  words,  '•  He  is  a  blind 
man  without  a  guide,  who  trusts  the  word  of  a  Pope."  And 
what  figure  haunts  Palazzo  Altovitd,  the  home  of  that  fierce 
Ghibelline  house  loved  by  Frederick  ii,  if  not  that  hero  who 
expelled  the  Duke  of  Athens.  Palazzo  Pazzi  and  Palazzo 
Nonfinito  at  the  Canto  dei  Pazzi  where  the  Borgo  degli  Albizzi 
meets  Via  del  Proconsolo,  brings  back  to  me  that  madman  who 
first  set  the  Cross  upon  the  walls  of  Jerusalem  in  1099,  and  who 
for  this  cause  was  given  some  stones  from  Christ's  sepulchre 
by  Godfrey  de  Bouillon,  which  he  brought  to  Florence  and 
presented  to  the  Republic.  They  were  placed  in  S.  Reparata, 
which  stood  where  the  Duomo  now  is,  and,  as  it  is  said,  the 
"  new  fire "  was  struck  from  them  every  Holy  Saturday,  and 
the  clergy,  in  procession,  brought  that  sacred  flame  to  the 
other  churches  of  the  city.  And  the  Pazzi,  because  of  their 
gift,  gave  the  guard  of  honour  in  this  procession :  and  this 
they  celebrated  with  much  pomp  among  themselves ;  till  at 
last  they  obtained  permission  to  build  a  carrOy  which  should 
be  lighted  at  the  door  of  S.  Reparata  by  some  machine  of 
their  invention,  and  drawn  by  four  white  oxen  to  their  houses. 
And  even  to  this  day  you  may  see  this  thing,  and  to  this  day 
the  car  is  borne  to  their  canto.  But  above  all  I  see  before 
that  "  unfinished  "  place  the  ruined  hopes  of  those  who  plotted 
to  murder  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  with  his  brother  at  the  Easter 
Mass  in  the  Duomo.  Even  now,  amid  the  noise  of  the  street, 
I  seem  to  hear  the  shouting  of  the  people,  Vive  U  Palle^ 
Morte  ai  Pazzi. 

So  I  shall  come  into  the  Proconsolo  beside  the  Bargello, 
where  so  many  great  and  splendid  people  are  remembered,  and 
she,  too,  who  is  so  beautiful  that  for  her  sake  we  forget  every- 
thing else,  Vanna  degli  Albizzi,  who  married  Lorenzo  de' 
Tonubuoni,  whom  Verrocchio  carved  and  Ghirlandajo  painted. 


FLORENCE  155 

Then  I  shall  follow  the  Via  del  Corso  past  S.  Margherita, 
close  to  Dante's  mythical  home,  into  Via  Calzaioli,  the  busiest 
street  of  the  city,  and  I  shall  think  of  the  strange  difference 
between  these  three  great  ways,  Via  del  Proconsolo,  Via 
Calzaioli,  and  Via  Tornabuoni,  which  mark  and  divide  the  most 
ancient  city.  I  shall  turn  toward  Or  San  Michele,  where  on 
St.  John's  Day  the  banners  of  the  guilds  are  displayed  above 
the  statues,  and  for  a  little  time  I  shall  look  again  on 
Verrocchio's  Christ  and  St.  Thomas.  Then  in  this  pilgrimage 
of  remembrance  I  shall  pass  up  Via  Calzaioli,  past  the  gay 
cool  caft  of  Gilli,  into  the  Piazza  del  Duomo.  And  again,  I 
shall  fear  lest  the  tower  may  fall  like  a  lopped  lily,  and  I  shall 
wish  that  Giotto  had  made  it  ever  so  little  bigger  at  the  base. 
Then  I  shall  pass  to  the  right  past  the  Misericordia,  where  for 
sure  I  shall  meet  some  of  the  confraternity^  past  the  great  gazing 
statue  of  Brunellesco,  till,  at  the  top  of  Via  del  Proconsolo, 
I  shall  turn  to  look  at  the  Duomo,  which,  seen  from  here, 
seems  like  a  great  Greek  cross  under  a  dome,  that  might  cover 
the  world.  And  so  I  shall  pass  round  the  apse  of  the 
Cathedral  till  I  come  to  the  door  of  the  Cintola,  where  Nanni 
di  Banco  has  marvellously  carved  Madonna  in  an  almond- 
shaped  glory  :  and  this  is  one  of  the  fairest  things  in  Florence. 
And  I  shall  go  on  my  way,  past  the  Gate  of  Paradise  to  the 
open  door  of  the  Baptistery,  and  returning  find  the  tomb  of 
Baldassare  Cossa,  soldier  and  antipope,  carved  by  Donatello : 
and  here,  in  the  most  ancient  church  of  Florence,  I  shall  thank 
St.  John  for  my  return. 

Out  in  the  Piazza  once  more,  I  shall  turn  into  Borgo  S. 
Lorenzo,  and  follow  it  till  I  come  to  Piazza  di  S.  Lorenzo, 
with  its  bookstalls  where  Browning  found  that  book,  "small 
quarto  size,  part  print,  part  manuscript,"  which  told  him  the 
story  of  **  The  Ring  and  the  Book."  There  I  shall  look  once 
more  on  the  ragged,  rugged  front  of  S,  Lorenzo,  and  entering, 
find  the  tomb  of  Piero  de'  Medici,  made  by  Verrocchio,  and 
thinking  awhile  of  those  other  tombs  where  Michelangelo 
hard  by  carved  his  Night  and  Day,  Twilight  and  Dawn,  I 
shall  find  my  way  again  into  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  and. 


156    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

following  Via  Cerretani,  that  busy  street,  I  shall  come  at  last 
into  Piazza  S.  Maria  Novella,  and  there  on  the  north  I  shall 
see  again  the  bride  of  Michelangelo,  the  most  beautiful 
church  in  Florence,  S.  Maria  Novella  of  the  Dominicans. 
Perhaps  I  shall  rest  there  a  little  before  Duccio's  Madonna  on 
her  high  altar,  and  linger  under  the  grave,  serene  work  of 
Ghirlandajo ;  but  it  may  be  the  sky  will  be  too  fair  for  any 
church  to  hold  me,  so  that  passing  down  the  way  of  the 
Beautiful  Ladies,  and  taking  Via  dei  Serpi  on  my  left,  I  shall 
come  into  Via  Tomabuoni,  that  smiling,  lovely  way  just  above 
the  beautiful  Palazzo  Antinori,  whence  I  may  see  Palazzo 
Strozzi,  but  without  the  great  lamp  at  the  comer  where  the 
flowers  are  heaped  and  there  are  always  so  many  loungers. 
Indeed,  the  whole  street  is  full  of  flowers  and  sunshine  and 
cool  shadow,  and  in  some  way,  I  know  not  what,  it  remains 
the  most  beautiful  gay  street  in  Florence,  where  past  and 
present  have  met  and  are  friends.  And  then  I  know  if  I 
follow  this  way  I  shall  come  to  Lung'  Arno, — I  may  catch  a 
glimpse  of  it  even  from  the  comer  of  Via  Porta  Rossa  over 
the  cabs,  past  the  Column  of  S.  Trinita ;  but  the  morning  is 
gone :  it  is  already  long  past  midday,  it  is  necessary  to 
eat. 

Luncheon  over,  I  shall  follow  Via  Porta  Rossa,  with  its  old 
palaces  of  the  Torrigiani  (now,  Hotel  Porta  Rossa),  and  the 
Davanzati  into  Mercato  Nuovo,  where,  because  it  is  Thursday, 
the  whole  place  will  be  smothered  with  flowers  and  children,  little 
laughing  rascals  as  impudent  as  Lippo  Lippi's  Angiolini,  who 
play  about  the  Tacca  and  splash  themselves  with  water.  And 
so  I  shall  pass  at  last  into  Piazza  della  Signoria,  before  the 
marvellous  palace  of  the  people  with  its  fierce,  proud  tower, 
and  I  shall  stand  on  the  spot  before  the  fountains  where 
Humanism  avenged  itself  on  Puritanism,  where  Savonarola, 
that  Ferrarese  who  burned  the  pictures  and  would  have 
burned  the  city,  was  himself  burned  in  the  fire  he  had 
invoked.  And  I  shall  look  once  more  on  the  Loggia  dei 
Lanzi,  and  see  Cellini's  young  contadino  masquerading  as 
Perseus,  and  in  my  heart  I  shall  remember  the  little  wax 


FLORENCE  157 

figure  he  made  for  a  model,  now  in  Bargello,  which  is  so 
much  more  beautiful  than  this  young  giant.  So,  under  the 
cool  cloisters  of  Palazzo  degli  Uffizi  I  shall  come  at  last  on 
to  Lung'  Amo,  where  it  is  very  quiet,  and  no  horses  may 
pass,  and  the  trams  are  a  long  way  off.  And  I  shall  lift  up 
my  eyes  and  behold  once  more  the  hill  of  gardens  across 
Amo,  with  the  Belvedere  just  within  the  old  walls,  and  S. 
Miniato,  like  a  white  and  fragile  ghost  in  the  sunshine,  and 
La  Bella  Villanella  couched  like  a  brown  bird  under  the 
cypresses  above  the  grey  olives  in  the  wind  and  the  sun. 
And  something  in  the  gracious  sweep  of  the  hills,  in  the 
gentle  nobility  of  that  holy  mountain  which  Michelangelo 
has  loved  and  defended,  which  Dante  Alighieri  has  spoken 
of,  which  Gianozzo  Manetti  has  so  often  climbed,  will  bring 
the  tears  to  my  eyes,  and  I  shall  turn  away  towards  Ponte 
Vecchio,  the  oldest  and  most  beautiful  of  the  bridges,  where 
the  houses  lead  one  over  the  river,  and  the  little  shops  of  the 
jewellers  still  sparkle  and  smile  with  trinkets.  And  in  the 
midst  of  the  bridge  I  shall  wait  awhile  and  look  on  Amo. 
Then  I  shall  cross  the  bridge  and  wander  upstream  towards 
Porta  S.  Niccolb,  that  gaunt  and  naked  gate  in  the  midst  of 
the  way,  and  there  I  shall  climb  through  the  gardens  up  the 
steep  hill 

..."  Per  salirc  al  monte 
Dove  siede  la  chiesa"  .  .  . 

to  the  great  Piazzale,  and  so  to  the  old  worn  platform  before 
S.  Miniato  itself,  under  the  strange  glowing  mosaics  of  the 
facade :  and,  standing  on  the  graves  of  dead  Florentines,  I 
shall  look  down  on  the  beautiful  city. 

Marvellously  fair  she  is  on  a  summer  evening  as  seen  from 
that  hill  of  gardens,  Amo  like  a  river  of  gold  before  her, 
leading  over  the  plain  lost  in  the  farthest  hills.  Behind  her 
the  mountains  rise  in  great  amphitheatres, — Fiesole  on  the 
one  side,  like  a  sentinel  on  her  hill ;  on  the  other,  the 
Apennines,  whose  gesture,  so  noble,  precise,  and  splendid, 
seems  to  point  ever  towards  some  universal  sovereignty,  some 


158     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

perfect  domination,  as  though  this  place  had  been  ordained 
for  the  resurrection  of  man.  Under  this  mighty  symbol 
of  annunciation  lies  the  city,  clear  and  perfect  in  the  lucid 
light,  her  towers  shining  under  the  serene  evening  sky. 
Meditating  there  alone  for  a  long  time  in  the  profound 
silence  of  that  hour,  the  whole  history  of  this  city  that 
witnessed  the  birth  of  the  modern  world,  the  resurrection 
of  the  gods,  will  come  to  me. 

Out  of  innumerable  discords,  desolations,  hopes  unfilled, 
everlasting  hatred  and  despair,  I  shall  see  the  city  rise  four 
square  within  her  rosy  walls  between  the  river  and  the  hills ; 
I  shall  see  that  lonely,  beautiful,  and  heroic  figure,  Matilda 
the  great  Countess;  I  shall  suffer  the  dream  that  consumes 
her,  and  watch  Germany  humble  in  the  snow.  And  the 
Latin  cause  will  tower  a  red  lily  beside  Arno ;  one  by  one 
the  great  nobles  will  go  by  with  cruel  alien  faces,  prisoners, 
to  serve  the  Lily  or  to  die.  Out  of  their  hatred  will  spring 
that  mongrel  cause  of  Guelph  and  Ghibelline,  and  I  shall  see 
the  Amidei  slay  Buondelmonte  Buondelmonti.  Through  the 
year  of  victories  I  shall  rejoice,  when  Pistoja  falls,  when  Siena 
falls,  when  Volterra  is  taken,  and  Pisa  forced  to  make  peace. 
Then  in  tears  I  shall  see  the  flight  at  Monteaperti,  I  shall 
hear  the  thunder  of  the  horses,  and  with  hate  in  my  heart 
I  shall  search  for  Bocca  degli  Abati,  the  traitor,  among  the 
ten  thousand  dead.  And  in  the  council  I  shall  be  by  when 
they  plot  the  destruction  of  the  city,  and  I  shall  be  afraid : 
then  I  shall  hear  the  heroic,  scornful  words  of  Farinata 
degli  Uberti,  when  in  his  pride  he  spared  Florence  for  the 
sake  of  his  birth.  And  I  shall  watch  the  banners  at 
Campaldino,  I  shall  hear  the  intoxicating  words  of  Corso 
Donati,   I  shall  look  into  his  very  face  and  read  the  truth. 

And  at  dawn  I  shall  walk  with  Dante,  and  I  shall  know  by 
the  softness  of  his  voice  when  Beatrice  passeth,  but  I  shall  not 
dare  to  lift  my  eyes.  I  shall  walk  with  him  through  the 
city,  I  shall  hear  Giotto  speak  to  him  of  St.  Francis,  and 
Amolfo  will  tell  us  of  his  dreams.  And  at  evening  Petrarch 
will  lead  me  into  the  shadow  of  S.  Giovanni  and  tell  me  of 


FLORENCE  159 

Madonna  Laura.  But  it  will  be  a  morning  of  spring  when 
I  meet  Boccaccio,  ah,  in  S.  Maria  Novella,  and  as  we  come 
into  the  sunshine  I  shall  laugh  and  say,  "  Tell  me  a  story." 
And  Charles  of  Valois  will  pass  by,  who  sent  Dante  on  that 
long  journey ;  and  Henry  vii,  for  whom  he  had  prayed ;  and 
I  shall  hear  the  trumpets  of  Montecatini,  and  I  shall  under- 
stand the  hate  Uguccione  had  for  Castracani.  And  I  shall 
watch  the  entry  of  the  Duke  of  Athens,  and  I  shall  see  his 
cheek  flush  at  the  thought  of  a  new  tyranny.  Then  for  the 
first  time  I  shall  hear  the  sinister,  fortunate  name  Medici. 
Under  the  banners  of  the  Arti  I  shall  hear  the  rumour  of 
their  names,  Silvestro  who  urged  on  the  Ciompi,  Vieri  who 
once  made  peace ;  nor  will  the  death  of  Gian  Galeazzo  of 
Milan,  nor  the  tragedy  of  Pisa,  hinder  their  advent,  for  I 
shall  see  Giovanni  di  Bicci  de'  Medici  proclaimed  Gonfaloniere 
of  the  city.  Then  they  will  troop  by  more  splendid  than 
princes,  the  universal  bankers,  lords  of  Florence ;  Cosimo  the 
hard  old  man.  Pater  Patriae,  the  greatest  of  his  race ;  Piero,  the 
weakling ;  Lorenzo  il  Magnifico,  tyrant  and  artist ;  and  over  his 
shoulder  I  shall  see  the  devilish,  sensual  face  of  Savonarola, 
And  there  will  go  by  Giuliano,  the  lover  of  Simonetta ;  Piero 
the  exile ;  Giovanni  the  mighty  pope,  Leo  x ;  Giulio  the 
son  of  Guiliano,  Clement  vii. ;  Ippolito  the  Cardinal,  Aless- 
andro  the  cruel,  Lorenzino  his  assassin,  Cosimo  Invitto,  Grand 
Duke  of  Tuscany,  bred  in  a  convent  and  mourned  for  ever. 

So  they  pass  by,  and  their  descendants  follow  after  them, 
even  to  poor,  unhappy,  learned  Gian  Gastone,  the  last  of 
his  race. 

And  around  them  throng  the  artists ;  yes,  I  shall  see  them 
all.  Angelico  will  lead  me  into  his  cell  and  show  me  the 
meaning  of  the  Resurrection.  With  Lippo  Lippi  I  shall  play 
with  the  children,  and  talk  with  Lucrezia  Buti  at  the  convent 
gate ;  Ghirlandajo  will  take  me  where  Madonna  Vanna  is,  and 
with  Baldovinetti  I  shall  watch  the  dawn.  And  Botticelli  will 
lead  me  into  a  grove  apart :  I  shall  see  the  beauty  of  those  three 
women  who  pass,  who  pass  like  a  season,  and  are  neither  glad  nor 
sorry  ;  and  with  him  I  shall  understand  the  joy  of  Venus,  whose 


i6o    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

son  was  love,  and  the  tears  of  Madonna,  whose  Son  was  Love 
also.  And  I  shall  hear  the  voice  of  Leonardo ;  and  he  will 
play  upon  his  lyre  of  silver,  that  lyre  in  the  shape  of  a  horse's 
head  which  he  made  for  Sforza  of  Milan ;  and  I  shall  see 
him  touch  the  hands  of  Monna  Lisa.  And  I  shall  see  the 
statue  of  snow  that  Buonarotti  made ;  I  shall  find  him  under 
S.  Miniato,  and  I  shall  weep  with  him. 

So  I  shall  dream  in  the  sunset.  The  Angelus  will  be  ringing 
from  all  the  towers,  I  shall  have  celebrated  my  return  to  the 
city  that  I  have  loved.  The  splendour  of  the  dying  day  will 
lie  upon  her ;  in  that  enduring  and  marvellous  hour,  when 
in  the  sound  of  every  bell  you  may  find  the  names  that  are 
in  your  heart,  I  shall  pass  again  through  the  gardens,  I  shall 
come  into  the  city  when  the  little  lights  before  Madonna  will 
be  shining  at  the  street  comers,  and  streets  will  be  full  of 
the  evening,  where  the  river,  stained  v^nth  fading  gold,  steals 
into  the  night  to  the  sea.  And  under  the  first  stars  I  shall 
find  my  way  to  my  hillside.  On  that  white  country  road 
the  dust  of  the  day  will  have  covered  the  vines  by  the  way, 
the  cypresses  will  be  white  half-way  to  their  tops,  in  the 
whispering  olives  the  cicale  will  still  be  singing ;  as  I  pass 
every  threshold  some  dog  will  rouse,  some  horse  will  stamp 
in  the  stable,  or  an  ox  stop  munching  in  his  stall.  In  the 
far  sky,  marvellous  with  infinite  stars,  the  moon  will  sail  like  a 
little  platter  of  silver,  like  a  piece  of  money  new  from  the  mint, 
like  a  golden  rose  in  a  mirror  of  silver.  Long  and  long  ago 
the  sun  will  have  set,  but  when  I  come  to  the  gate  I  shall  go 
under  the  olives ;  though  I  shall  be  weary  I  shall  go  by  the 
longest  way,  I  shall  pass  by  the  winding  path,  I  shall  listen 
for  the  whisper  of  the  com.  And  I  shall  beat  at  my  gate,  and 
one  will  say  Chi  },  and  I  shall  make  answer.  So  I  shall 
come  into  my  house,  and  the  triple  lights  will  be  lighted  in 
the  garden,  and  the  table  will  be  spread.  And  there  will  be 
one  singing  in  the  vineyard,  and  I  shall  hear,  and  there  will 
be  one  walking  in  the  garden,  and  I  shall  know. 


XI 
FLORENCE 

PIAZZA   DELLA   SIGNORIA   AND 
PALAZZO  VECCHIO 

IN  every  ancient  city  of  the  world,  cities  that  in  themselves 
for  the  most  part  have  been  nations,  one  may  find  some 
spot  holy  or  splendid  that  instantly  evokes  an  image  of  the 
city  of  which  it  is  a  symbol, — that  sums  up,  as  it  were,  in  itself 
all  the  sanctity,  beauty,  and  splendour  of  her  fame,  and  in 
whose  rume  there  lives  even  yet  something  of  the  glory  that 
is  dead.  It  is  so  no  longer;  in  what  confused  street  or 
shapeless  square  shall  I  find  hidden  the  soul  of  London,  or 
in  what  name  then  shall  I  sum  up  the  lucid  restless  life  of 
Paris  ?  But  if  I  name  the  Acropolis,  all  the  pale  beauty  of 
Athens  will  stir  in  my  heart ;  and  when  I  speak  the  word 
Capitolium,  I  seem  to  hear  the  thunder  of  the  legions,  to  see 
the  very  face  of  Caesar,  to  understand  the  dominion  and 
majesty  of  Rome. 

Something  of  this  power  of  evocation  may  still  be  found 
in  the  Piazza  dcUa  Signoria  of  Florence :  all  the  love  that 
founded  the  city,  the  beauty  that  has  given  her  fame,  the 
immense  confusion  that  is  her  history,  the  hatred  that  has 
destroyed  her,  Ungers  yet  in  that  strange  and  lovely  place 
where  Palazzo  Vecchio  stands  like  a  violated  fortress,  where 
the  Duke  of  Athens  was  expelled  the  city,  where  the  Ciompi 
rose  againt  the  Ghibellines,  where  Jesus  Christ  was  proclaimed 
King  of  the  Florentines,  where  Savonarola  was  burned,  and 
Alessandro  de'  Medici  made  himself  Duke. 
1 1 


i62    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

It  is  not  any  great  and  regular  space  you  come  upon  in 
the  Piazza  della  Signoria,  such  as  the  huge  empty  Place  de  la 
Concorde  of  Paris,  but  one  that  is  large  enough  for  beauty, 
and  full  of  the  sweet  variety  of  the  city ;  it  is  the  symbol  of 
Florence — a  beautiful  symbol. 

In  the  morning  the  whole  Piazza  is  full  of  sunlight,  and 
swarming  with  people :  there,  is  a  stall  for  newspapers ;  here, 
a  lemonade  merchant  dispenses  his  sweet  drinks.  Everyone 
is  talking ;  at  the  corner  of  Via  Calzaioli  a  crowd  has  assembled, 
a  crowd  that  moves  and  seems  about  to  dissolve,  that  con- 
stantly re-forms  itself  without  ever  breaking  up.  On  the 
benches  of  the  loggia  men  lie  asleep  in  the  shadow,  and 
children  chase  one  another  among  the  statues.  Everywhere 
and  from  all  directions  cabs  pass  with  much  cracking  of  whips 
and  hallooing.  There  stand  two  Carabinieri  in  their  splendid 
uniforms,  surveying  this  noisy  world,  and  an  officer  passes  with 
his  wife,  leading  his  son  by  the  hand  ;  you  may  see  him  lift  his 
sword  as  he  steps  on  the  pavement.  A  group  of  tourists  go  by, 
urged  on  by  a  gesticulating  guide ;  he  is  about  to  show  them 
the  statues  in  the  loggia ;  they  halt  under  the  Perseus.  He 
begins  to  speak  of  it,  while  the  children  look  up  at  him  as 
though  to  catch  what  he  is  saying  in  that  foreign  tongue. 

And  surely  the  Piazza,  which  has  seen  so  many  strange  and 
splendid  things,  may  well  tolerate  this  also ;  it  is  so  gay,  so 
full  of  life.  Very  fair  she  seems  under  the  sunlight,  picturesque 
too,  with  her  buildings  so  different  and  yet  so  harmonious. 
On  the  right  the  gracious  beauty  of  Loggia  dei  Lanzi ;  then 
before  you  the  lofty,  fierce  old  Palazzo  Vecchio ;  and  beside 
it  the  fountains  play  in  the  farther  Piazza.  Cosimo  i  rides 
by  as  though  into  Siena,  while  behind  him  rises  the  palace 
of  the  Uguccioni,  which  Folfi  made ;  and  beside  you  the 
Calzaioli  ebbs  and  flows  with  its  noisy  life,  as  of  old  the 
busiest  street  of  the  city. 

The  Palazza  Vecchio,  peaceful  enough  now,  but  still  with 
fierce  gesture  of  war  strewn  on  one  side,  facing  the  Piazza,  a 
fortress  of  huge  stones  four  storeys  high  j  the  last,  thrust  out 
from  the  wall  and  supported  by  arches  on  brackets  of  stone, 


I.OlU.IA     OK     l..\\/l 


PIAZZA  BELLA  SIGNORIA  163 

as  though  crowning  the  palace  itself.  It  stands  almost  four- 
square, and  above  rises  the  beautiful  tower,  the  highest  tower 
in  the  city,  with  a  gallery  similar  to  the  last  storey  of  the 
palace,  and  above  a  loggia  borne  by  four  pillars,  from  which 
spring  the  great  arches  of  the  canopy  that  supports  the  spire ; 
and  whereas  the  battlements  of  the  palazzo  are  square  and 
Guelph,  those  of  the  tower  are  Ghibelline  in  the  shape  of  the 
tail  of  the  swallow.  Set  not  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  nor 
made  to  close  it,  but  on  one  side,  it  was  thus  placed,  it  is 
said,  in  order  to  avoid  the  burned  houses  of  the  Uberti,  who 
had  been  expelled  the  city.  However  this  may  be,  and  its 
position  is  so  fortunate  that  it  is  not  likely  to  be  due  to  any 
such  chance,  Arnolfo  di  Cambio  began  it  in  February  1299, 
taking  as  his  model,  so  some  have  thought,  the  Rocca  of  the 
Count  Guidi  of  the  Casentino,  which  Lapo  his  father  had 
built.  Under  the  arches  of  the  fourth  storey  are  painted  the 
coats  of  the  city  and  its  gonfaloni.  And  there  you  may  see 
the  most  ancient  device  of  the  city,  the  lily  argent  on  a  field 
gules,  the  united  coats  gules  and  argent  of  Fiesole  and 
P'lorence  in  loio.  The  coat  of  Guelph  Florence,  a  lily  gules 
on  a  field  argent,  and,  among  the  rest,  the  coat  of  Charles  of 
Anjou,  the  lilies  or  on  a  field  azure. 

On  the  platform  or  ringhiera  before  the  great  door,  the  priori 
watched  the  greater  festas,  and  made  their  proclamations, 
before  the  Loggia  de'  Lanzi  was  built  in  1387;  and  here  in 
1532  the  last  signoria  of  the  Republic  proclaimed  Alessandro 
de'  Medici  first  Duke  of  Florence,  in  front  of  the  Judith  and 
Holofemes  of  Donatello,  whose  warning  went  unheeded.  And 
indeed,  that  group,  part  of  the  plunder  that  the  people  found 
in  Palazzo  Riccardi,  in  the  time  of  Piero  de  Medici,  who  sought 
to  make  himself  tyrant,  once  stood  beside  the  great  gate 
of  Palazzo  Vecchio,  whence  it  was  removed  at  the  command 
of  Alessandro,  who  placed  there  instead  Bandinelli's  feeble 
Hercules  and  Cacus.  Opposite  to  it  Michelangelo's  David 
once  stood,  till  it  was  removed  in  our  own  time  to  the 
Accademia. 

Over  the  great  door  where  of  old  was  set  the  monogram 


i64    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

of  Christ,  you  may  read  still  Rex  Regum  et  Dominus 
DoMiNANTiUM,  and  within  the  gate  is  a  court  most  splendid 
and  lovely,  built  after  the  design  of  Arnolfo,  and  once 
supported  by  his  pillars  of  stone,  but  now  the  columns  of 
Michelozzo,  made  in  1450,  and  covered  with  stucco  decoration 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  form  the  cortile  in  which  over  the 
fountain  of  Vasari  Verrocchio's  lovely  Boy  Playing  with  the 
Dolphin,  ever  half  turns  in  his  play.  Altogether  lovely  in 
its  naturalism,  its  humorous  grace,  Verrocchio  made  it  for 
Lorenzo  Magnifico,  who  placed  it  in  his  gardens  at  Careggi, 
whence  it  was  brought  here  by  Cosimo  i.  Passing  through 
that  old  palace,  up  the  great  staircase  into  the  Salone  dei 
Cinquecenti,  where  Savonarola  was  tried,  with  the  Cappella  di 
S.  Bernardo,  where  he  made  his  last  communion,  and  at  last 
up  the  staircase  into  the  tower,  where  he  was  tortured  and 
imprisoned,  it  is  ever  of  that  mad  pathetic  figure,  self-con- 
demned and  self-murdered,  that  you  think,  till  at  last,  coming 
out  of  the  Palazzo,  you  seek  the  spot  of  his  awful  death  in  the 
Piazza,  Fanatic  puritan  as  he  was,  vainer  than  any  Medici, 
it  is  difficult  to  understand  how  he  persuaded  the  Florentines 
to  listen  to  his  eloquence,  spoiled  as  it  must  have  been  for 
them  by  the  Ferrarese  dialect.  How  could  a  people  who 
were  the  founders  of  the  modern  world,  the  creators  of 
modem  culture,  allow  themselves  to  be  baffled  by  a  fanatic 
friar  prophesying  judgment?  Yet  something  of  a  peculiar 
charm,  a  force  that  we  miss  in  the  sensual  and  almost  devilish 
face  we  see  in  his  portrait,  he  must  have  possessed,  for  it  is  said 
the  Lorenzo  desired  his  company ;  and  even  though  we  are 
able  to  persuade  ourselves  that  it  was  for  other  reasons  than 
to  enjoy  his  friendship,  we  have  yet  to  explain  the  influence 
he  exercised  over  Sandro  Botticelli  and  Pico  della  Mirandola, 
whose  lives  he  changed  altogether.  In  the  midst  of  a  people 
without  a  moral  sense  he  appears  Uke  the  spirit  of  denial. 
He  was  kicking  against  the  pricks,  he  was  guilty  of  the  sin 
against  the  light,  and  whether  his  aim  was  political  or  religious, 
or  maybe  both,  he  failed.  It  is  said  he  denied  Lorenzo 
absolution,  that  he  left  him  without  a  word  at  the  brink  of  the 


PIAZZA  DELLA  SIGNORIA  165 

grave,  but  when  he  himself  came  to  die  by  the  horrible, 
barbaric  means  he  had  invoked  in  a  boast,  he  did  not  show  the 
fortitude  of  the  Magnificent.  Full  of  every  sort  of  rebellion 
and  violence,  he  made  anarchy  in  Florence,  and  scoffed  at  the 
Holy  See,  while  he  was  a  guest  of  the  one  and  the  officer  of  the 
other.  His  bonfires  of  "vanities,"  as  he  called  them,  were 
possibly  as  disastrous  for  Florence  as  the  work  of  the  Puritan 
was  for  England ;  for  while  he  burned  the  pictures,  they  sold 
them  to  the  Jews.  He  is  dead,  and  has  become  one  of  the 
bores  of  history ;  while  Americans  leave  their  cards  on  the 
stone  that  marks  the  place  of  his  burning,  the  Florentines 
appear  to  have  forgotten  him.     Peace  to  his  ashes  ! 

As  you  enter  the  Loggia  de'  Lanzi,  gay  with  children  now, 
once  the  lounge  of  the  Swiss  Guard,  whose  barracks  were 
not  far  away,  you  wonder  who  can  have  built  so  gay,  so 
happy  a  place  beside  the  fortress  of  the  Signoria.  Yet,  in 
truth,  it  was  for  the  Priori  themselves  that  loggia  was  built, 
though  not  by  Orcagna  as  it  is  said,  to  provide,  perhaps,  a 
lounge  in  summer  for  the  fathers  of  the  city,  and  for  a  place 
of  proclamation  that  all  Florence  might  hear  the  laws  they 
had  made.  Yes,  and  to-day,  too,  do  they  not  proclaim  the 
tombola  where  once  they  announced  a  victory?  Even  now, 
in  spite  of  forgotten  greatness,  it  is  still  a  garden  of  statues. 
Looking  ever  over  the  Piazza  stands  the  Perseus  of  Cellini, 
with  the  head  of  Medusa  held  up  to  the  multitude,  the  sword 
still  gripped  in  his  hand.  It  is  the  masterpiece  of  one  who, 
like  all  the  greatest  artists  of  the  Renaissance — Giotto,  Orcagna, 
Leonardo,  Michelangelo.  Raphael — did  not  confine  himself  to 
one  art,  but  practised  many.  And  though  it  would  be  unjust 
to  compare  such  a  man  as  Cellini  with  the  greatest  of  all,  yet 
he  was  great  not  only  as  a  sculptor  and  a  goldsmith,  but  as  a 
man  of  letters  and  as  a  man  of  the  world.  His  Perseus,  a 
little  less  than  a  demigod,  is  indeed  not  so  lovely  as  the  wax 
model  he  made  for  it,  which  is  now  in  the  Bargello  ;  but  in  the 
gesture  with  which  he  holds  out  the  severed  head  from  him, 
in  the  look  of  secret  delight  that  is  already  half  remorseful 
for  all  that  dead  beauty,  in  the  heroic  grace  with  which  he 


i66    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHEHN  TUSCANY 

stands  there  after  the  murder,  the  dead  body  marvellously 
fallen  at  his  feet,  Cellini  has  proved  himself  the  greatest 
sculptor  of  his  time.  That  statue  cost  him  dear  enough,  as 
he  tells  you  in  his  Memoirs,  but,  as  Gautier  said,  it  is  worth 
all  it  cost. 

On  the  pedestal  you  may  see  the  deliverance  of  Andromeda ; 
but  the  finest  of  these  reliefs  has  been  taken  to  the  Bargello. 
The  only  other  bronze  here  is  the  work  of  Donatello — a  Judith 
and  Holofernes,  under  the  arch  towards  the  Uffizi.  It  is 
Donatello's  only  large  bronze  group,  and  was  probably  de- 
signed for  the  centre  piece  of  a  fountain,  the  mattress  on  which 
Holofernes  has  fallen  having  little  spouts  for  water.  Judith 
stands  over  her  victim,  who  is  already  dead,  her  sword  lifted 
to  strike  again  ;  and  you  may  see  by  her  face  that  she  will  strike 
if  it  be  necessary.  Beneath  you  read — **  Exemplum  salut. 
publ.  cives  posuere,  mccccxv."  Poor  as  the  statue  appears  in 
its  present  position,  the  three  bronze  reliefs  of  the  base  gain 
here  what  they  must  lose  in  the  midst  of  a  fountain,  yet  even 
they  too  are  unfortunate.  Indeed,  very  few  statues  of  this 
sort  were  made  by  the  sculptors  of  the  Renaissance ;  for  the 
most  part  they  confined  themselves  to  single  figures  and  to 
groups  in  relief:  even  Michelangelo  but  rarely  attempted  the 
•'freestanding  group."  It  is,  however,  to  such  a  work  we 
come  in  the  splendidly  composed  Rape  of  the  Sabines  by 
Giovanni  da  Bologna  in  the  Loggia  itself.  Spoiled  a  Itttle  by 
its  too  laboured  detail,  its  chief  fault  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is 
top-heavy,  the  sculptor  having  placed  the  mass  of  the  group 
so  high  that  the  base  seems  unsubstantial  and  unbalanced. 
Bologna's  other  group  here,  Hercules  and  Nessus,  which  once 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  is  dramatic  and  well 
composed,  but  the  forms  are  feeble  and  even  insignificant. 
The  antique  group  of  Ajax  dragging  the  body  of  Patrocles,  is 
not  a  very  important  copy  of  some  great  work,  and  it  is 
much  restored  :  it  was  found  in  a  vineyard  near  Rome. 

The  great  fountain  which  plays  beside  the  Palazzo,  where 
of  old  the  houses  of  the  Uberti  stood,  is  rich  and  grandiose 
perhaps,  but  in  some  unaccountable  way  adds  much  to  the 


\\     \1(M  •!  I       1  .  ■!<      Mil       ■  1    K--I       -■     IS      '  Hh      P  \Ki.l  1   1  ■ 


PIAZZA  BELLA  SIGNORIA  167 

beauty  of  the  Piazza.  How  gay  and  full  of  life  it  is  even  yet, 
that  splendid  and  bitter  place,  that  in  its  beauty  and  various, 
everlasting  life  seems  to  stand  as  the  symbol  of  this  city,  so 
scornful  even  in  the  midst  of  the  overwhelming  foreigner  who 
has  turned  her  into  a  museum,  a  vast  cemetery  of  art.  Only 
here  you  may  catch  something  of  the  old  life  that  is  not 
altogether  passed  away.  Still,  in  spite  of  your  eyes,  you  must 
believe  there  are  Florentines  somewhere  in  the  city,  that  they 
are  still  as  in  Dante's  day  proud  and  wise  and  easily  angry, 
scornful  too,  a  little  turbulent,  not  readily  curbed,  but  full  of 
ambition — great  nobles,  great  merchants,  great  bankers.  Does 
such  an  one  never  come  to  weep  over  dead  Florence  in  this 
the  centre  of  her  fame,  the  last  refuge  of  her  greatness,  in  the 
night,  perhaps,  when  none  may  see  his  tears,  when  all  is  hushed 
that  none  may  mark  his  sorrow  ? 

It  was  past  midnight  when  once  more  I  came  out  of  the 
narrow  ways,  almost  empty  at  that  hour,  when  every  foot- 
fall resounds  between  the  old  houses,  into  the  old  Piazza  to 
learn  this  secret.  Far  away  in  the  sky  the  moon  swung  like  a 
censer,  filling  the  place  with  a  fragile  and  lovely  light  Stand- 
ing there  in  the  Piazza,  quite  deserted  now  save  for  some 
cloaked  figure  who  hurried  away  up  the  Calzaioli,  and  two 
Carabinieri  who  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  Uffizi  comer 
and  then  turned  under  the  arches,  I  seemed  to  understand 
something  of  the  spirit  that  built  that  marvellous  fortress, 
that  thrust  that  fierce  tower  into  the  sky ; — yes,  surely  at 
this  hour  some  long  dead  Florentine  must  venture  here  to 
console  the  living,  who,  for  sure,  must  be  gay  so  sadly  and 
with  so  much  regret. 

In  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi  the  moonlight  fell  among  the 
statues,  and  in  that  fairy  light  I  seemed  to  see  in  those  ghostly 
still  figures  of  marble  and  bronze  some  strange  fantastic 
parable,  the  inscrutable  prophecy  of  the  scornful  past.  Gian 
Bologna's  Sabine  woman,  was  she  not  Florence  struggling  in 
the  grip  of  the  modern  vandal ;  Cellini's  Perseus  with  Medusa's 
head,  has  it  not  in  truth  turned  the  city  to  stone  ? 

The  silence  was  broken ;  something  had  awakened  in  the 


i68     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Piazza :  perhaps  a  bird  fluttered  from  the  battlements  of  the 
Palazzo,  perhaps  it  was  the  city  that  turned  in  her  sleep.  No, 
there  it  was  again.  It  was  a  human  voice  close  beside  me : 
it  seemed  to  be  weeping. 

I  looked  around  :  all  was  quiet.  I  saw  nothing,  only  there 
at  the  comer  a  little  light  flickered  before  a  shrine;  and 
yes,  something  was  moving  there,  someone  who  was  weeping. 
Softly,  softly  over  the  stones  I  made  my  way  to  that  little 
shrine  of  Madonna  at  the  street  comer,  and  I  found,  ah ! 
no  proud  and  scornful  noble  mourning  over  dead  Florence, 
but  an  old  woman,  ragged  and  alone,  prostrate  under  some 
unimaginable  sorrow,  some  unappeasable  regret. 

Did  she  hear  as  of  old — that  Virgin  with  narrow  half-open 
eyes  and  the  sidelong  look  ?  God,  I  know  not  if  she  heard 
or  no.     Perhaps  I  alone  have  heard  in  all  the  world. 


XII 
FLORENCE 

THE  BAPTISTERY— THE  DUOMO— 
THE  CAMPANILE— THE  OPERA  DEL  DUOMO 

ON  coming  into  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  perhaps  from  the 
light  and  space  of  the  Lung'  Amo  or  from  the  largeness 
of  the  Piazza  della  Signoria,  one  is  apt  to  think  of  it  as  too 
small  for  the  buildings  which  it  holds,  as  wanting  in  a  certain 
spaciousness  such  as  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter  at  Rome  certainly 
possesses,  or  in  the  light  of  the  meadow  of  Pisa ;  and  yet  this 
very  smallness,  only  smallness  when  we  consider  the  great 
buildings  set  there  so  precisely,  gives  it  an  element  of  beauty 
lacking  in  the  great  Piazza  of  Rome  and  in  Pisa  too — a  certain 
delicate  colour  and  shadow  and  a  sense  of  nearness,  of  homeli- 
ness almost ;  for  the  shadow  of  the  dome  falls  right  across  the 
city  itself  every  morning  and  evening.  And  indeed  the  Piazza 
del  Duomo  of  Florence  is  still  the  centre  of  the  life  of  the 
city,  and  though  to  some  this  may  be  matter  for  regret,  I  have 
found  in  just  that  a  sort  of  consolation  for  the  cabs  which 
Ruskin  hated  so,  for  the  trams  which  he  never  saw ;  for  just 
these  two  necessary  unfortunate  things  bring  one  so  often 
there  that  of  all  the  cathedrals  of  Italy  that  of  Florence  must 
be  best  known  to  the  greatest  number  of  people  at  all  hours 
of  the  day.  And  this  fact,  evil  and  good  working  together 
for  life's  sake,  makes  the  Duomo  a  real  power  in  the  city,  so 
that  everyone  is  interested,  often  passionately  interested,  in  it : 
it  has  a  real  influence  on  the  lives  of  the  citizens,  so  that 
nothing  in  the  past  or  even  to-day  has  ever  been  attempted 

169 


170    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

with  regard  to  it  without  winning  the  people's  leave.  Yet  it  is 
not  the  Duomo  alone  that  thus  lives  in  the  hearts  of  the 
Florentines,  but  the  whole  Piazza.  There  they  have  established 
their  trophies,  and  set  up  their  gifts,  and  lavished  their  treasure. 
It  was  built  for  all,  and  it  belongs  to  all ;  it  is  the  centre  of  the 
city. 

This  enduring  vitality  of  a  place  so  old,  so  splendid,  and  so 
beloved,  is,  I  think,  particularly  manifest  in  the  Church  of  S. 
Giovanni  Battista,  the  Baptistery.  It  is  the  oldest  building  in 
Florence,  built  probably  with  the  stones  from  the  Temple  of 
Mars  about  which  Villani  tells  us,  and  almost  certainly  in  its 
place ;  every  Florentine  child,  fortunate  at  least  in  this,  is  still 
brought  there  for  baptism,  and  receives  its  name  in  the  place 
where  Dante  was  christened,  where  Ippolito  Buondelmonti 
first  saw  Dianora  de'  Bardi,  where  Donatello  has  laboured, 
which  Michelangelo  has  loved. 

Built  probably  in  the  sixth  or  seventh  century,  it  was 
Amolfo  di  Cambio  who  covered  it  in  marble  in  1288,  building 
also  three  new  doorways  where  before  there  had  been  but 
one,  that  on  the  west  side,  which  was  then  closed.  The  mere 
form,  those  octagonal  walls  which,  so  it  is  said,  the  Lombards 
brought  into  Italy,  go  to  show  that  the  church  was  used  as 
a  Baptistery  from  the  first,  though  Villani  speaks  of  it  as  the 
Duomo;  and  indeed  till  1550  it  had  the  aspect  of  such  a 
church  as  the  Pantheon  in  Rome,  in  that  it  was  open  to  the 
sky,  so  that  the  rain  and  the  sunlight  have  fallen  on  the  very 
floor  trodden  by  so  many  generations.  Humble  and  simple 
enough  as  we  see  it  to-day  before  the  gay  splendour  of  the 
new  facade  of  the  Duomo,  it  has  yet  those  great  treasures 
which  the  Duomo  cannot  boast,  the  bronze  doors  of  Andrea 
Pisano  and  of  Ghiberti. 

Over  the  south  doorway  there  was  placed  in  the  end  of  the 
sixteenth  century  a  group  by  Vincenzo  Danti,  said  to  be  his 
best  work,  the  Beheading  of  St.  John  Baptist ;  and  under  are 
the  gates  of  Andrea  Pisano  carved  in  twenty  bronze  panels 
with  the  story  of  St.  John  and  certain  virtues :  and  around 
the  gate  Ghiberti  has  twined  an  exquisite  pattern  of  leaves 


iMA/ZA   in:i,  Diinio 


THE  BAPI'ISTERY  171 

and  fruits  and  birds.  It  is  strange  to  find  Ghiberti's  work 
thus  completing  that  of  Andrea  Pisano,  who,  as  it  is  said,  had 
Giotto  to  help  him,  till  we  understand  that  originally  these 
southern  gates  stood  where  now  are  the  **  Gates  of  Paradise  " 
before  the  Duomo.  Standing  there  as  they  used  to  do 
before  Ghiberti  moved  them,  they  won  for  Andrea  not  only 
the  admiration  of  the  people,  but  the  freedom  of  the  city. 
To-day  we  come  to  them  with  the  praise  of  Ghiberti  ringing 
in  our  ears,  so  that  in  our  hurry  to  see  everything  we  almost 
pass  them  by ;  but  in  their  simpler,  and,  as  some  may  think, 
more  sincere  way,  they  are  as  lovely  as  anything  Ghiberti 
ever  did,  and  in  comparing  them  with  the  great  gates  that 
supplanted  them,  it  may  be  well  to  remind  ourselves  that 
each  has  its  merit  in  its  own  fashion.  If  the  doors  of  Andrea 
won  the  praise  of  the  whole  city,  it  was  with  an  ever-growing 
excitement  that  Florence  proclaimed  a  public  competition, 
open  to  all  the  sculptors  of  Italy,  for  the  work  that  remained, 
those  two  doors  on  the  north  and  east.  Ghiberti,  at  that  time 
in  Rimini  at  the  court  of  Carlo  Malatesta,  at  the  entreaty  of 
his  father  returned  to  Florence,  and  was  one  of  the  two  artists 
out  of  the  thirty-four  who  competed,  to  be  chosen  for  the 
task  :  the  other  was  Filippo  Brunellesco.  You  may  see  the 
two  panels  they  made  in  the  Bargello  side  by  side  on  the  wall. 
The  subject  is  the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac,  and  Ghiberti,  with 
the  real  instinct  of  the  sculptor,  has  altogether  outstripped 
Brunellesco,  not  only  in  the  harmony  of  his  composition,  but 
in  the  simplicity  of  his  intention.  Brunellesco  seems  to 
have  understood  this,  and,  perhaps  liking  the  lad  who  was 
but  twenty-two  years  old,  withdrew  from  the  contest.  However 
this  may  be,  Ghiberti  began  the  work  at  once,  and  finished  the 
door  on  the  north  side  of  the  Baptistery  in  ten  years.  There, 
amid  a  framework  of  exquisite  foliage,  leaves,  birds,  and  all 
kinds  of  life,  he  has  set  the  gospel  story  in  twenty  panels,  be- 
ginning with  the  Annunciation  and  ending  with  the  Pentecost ; 
and  around  the  gate  he  has  set  the  four  Evangelists  and  the 
doctors  of  the  Church  and  the  prophets.  Above  you  may  see 
the  group  of  a  pupil  of  Verrocchio,  the  Preaching  of  St.  John. 


172    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

In  looking  on  these  beautiful  and  serene  works,  we  may 
already  notice  an  advance  on  the  work  of  Andrea  Pisano  in  a 
certain  ease  and  harmony,  a  richness  and  variety,  that  were 
beyond  the  older  master.  Ghiberti  has  already  begun  to 
change  with  his  genius  the  form  that  has  come  down  to  him, 
to  expand  it,  to  break  down  its  limitations  so  that  he  may 
express  himself,  may  show  us  the  very  visions  he  has  seen. 
And  the  success  of  these  gates  with  the  people  certainly 
confirmed  him  in  the  way  he  was  going.  In  the  third  door, 
that  facing  the  Duomo,  which  Michelangelo  has  said  was 
worthy  to  be  the  gate  of  Paradise,  it  is  really  a  new  art  we 
come  upon,  the  subtle  rhythms  and  perspectives  of  a  sort  of 
pictorial  sculpture,  that  allows  him  to  carve  here  in  such  low 
relief  that  it  is  scarcely  more  than  painting,  there  in  the  old 
manner,  the  old  manner  but  changed,  full  of  a  sort  of 
exuberance  which  here  at  any  rate  is  beauty.  The  ten  panels 
which  Ghiberti  thus  made  in  his  own  way  are  subjects  from 
the  Old  Testament :  the  Creation  of  Adam  and  Eve,  the  story 
of  Cain  and  Abel,  of  Noah,  of  Abraham  and  Isaac,  of  Jacob 
and  Esau,  of  Joseph,  of  Moses  on  Sinai,  of  Joshua  before 
Jericho,  of  David  and  Goliath,  of  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of 
Sheba.  At  his  death  in  1455  they  were  unfinished,  and  a  host 
of  sculptors,  including  Brunellesco  and  Paolo  Uccello,  are  said 
to  have  handled  the  work,  Antonio  del  PoUajuolo  being  credited 
with  the  quail  in  the  lower  frame.  Over  the  door  stands  the 
beautiful  work  of  Sansovino,  the  Baptism  of  Christ. 

It  is  with  a  certain  sense  of  curiosity  that  one  steps  down 
into  the  old  church ;  for  in  spite  of  every  sort  of  witness  it 
has  the  air  of  some  ancient  temple :  nor  do  the  beautiful 
antique  columns  which  support  the  triforium  undeceive  us. 
For  long  enough  now  the  mosaics  of  the  vault  have  been 
hidden  by  the  scaffolding  of  the  restorers ;  but  the  beautiful 
thirteenth-century  floor  of  white  and  black  marble,  in  the 
midst  of  which  the  font  once  stood,  is  still  undamaged.  The 
font,  which  is  possibly  a  work  of  the  Pisani,  is  on  one  side, 
set  there,  as  it  is  said,  because  of  old  the  roof  of  the 
church  was  open,  and  many  a  winter  christening  spoiled  by 


THE  BAPIISTERY  173 

rain.^  It  was  not,  however,  till  1571  that  the  old  font,  sur- 
rounded by  its  small  basins,  one  of  which  Dante  broke  in 
saving  a  man  from  drowning  there,  was  removed  from  the 
church  by  Francesco  i,  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  for  the 
christening  of  his  son. 

Certain  vestiges  of  the  oldest  church  remain  :  you  may  see 
a  sarcophagus,  one  of  those  which,  before  Amolfo  covered  the 
church  with  marble,  stood  without  and  held  the  ashes  of 
some  of  the  greater  families.  But  the  most  beautiful  thing 
here  is  the  tomb  that  Donatello  made  for  Baldassare  Cossa, 
pirate,  condottiere,  and  anti-pope,  who,  deposed  by  the  Council 
of  Constance  (14 14),  came  to  Florence,  and,  as  ever,  was  kindly 
received  by  the  people.  It  stands  beside  the  north  door.  On 
a  marble  couch  supported  by  lions,  the  gilt  bronze  statue 
of  this  prince  of  adventurers,  who  grasped  the  very  chair  of 
St.  Peter  as  booty,  lies,  his  brow  still  troubled,  his  mouth  set 
firm  as  though  plotting  new  conquests  even  in  the  grave. 
Below,  on  the  tomb  itself,  two  winged  angiolini  hold  the 
great  scroll  on  which  we  read  the  name  of  the  dead  man, 
Johannes  Quondam  Papa  xxiii :  to  which  inscription  Martin  v, 
Cossa's  successful  rival  at  Constance,  is  said  to  have  taken 
exception ;  but  the  Medici  who  had  built  the  tomb  answered 
in  Pilate's  words  to  the  Pharisees,  "  What  I  have  written,  I 
have  written."  The  three  marble  figures  in  niches  at  the 
base  may  be  by  Michelozzo,  who  worked  with  Donatello,  or 
possibly  by  Pagno  di  Lapo,  as  tlie  Madonna  above  the  tomb 
almost  certainly  is. 

Coming  up  once  more  into  the  Piazza  from  that  mysterious 
dim  church,  dim  with  the  centuries  of  the  history  of  the 
city,  you  come  upon  two  porphyry  columns  beside  the  eastern 
door.  They  are  the  gift  of  Pisa^  when  her  ships  returned 
from  the  Balearic  Islands  to  Florence,  who  had  defended  their 

*  I  give  this  story  for  what  it  is  worth.  So  far  as  I  know,  however,  the 
font  was  placed  in  its  present  position  in  1658,  more  than  a  hundred  years 
after  the  church  was  roofed  in.  It  may,  however,  have  occupied  another 
position  before  that. 

»  See  p.  82. 


174    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

city  from  the  Lucchesi.  The  column  with  the  branch  of  olive 
in  bronze  upon  it  to  the  north  of  the  Baptistery  reminds  us 
of  the  miracle  performed  by  the  body  of  S.  Zenobio  in  490. 
Borne  to  burial  in  S.  Reparata,  the  bier  is  said  to  have  touched 
a  dead  olive  tree  standing  on  this  spot,  which  immediately  put 
forth  leaves :  the  column  commemorates  this  miracle.  So  in 
Florence  they  remind  us  of  the  gods. 

In  turning  now  to  the  Duomo  we  come  to  one  of  the 
great  buildings  of  the  world.  Standing  on  the  site  of  the  old 
church  of  S.  Salvatore,  of  S.  Reparata,  it  is  a  building  of  the 
thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries,  begun  in  1298  from  the 
designs  of  Amolfo ;  and  it  is  dedicated  to  S.  Maria  del  Fiore. 
Coming  to  us  without  the  wonderful  romantic  interest,  the 
mysticism  and  exaltation  of  such  a  church  as  Notre  Dame 
d'Amiens,  without  the  more  resolute  and  heroic  appeal  of  such 
a  stronghold  as  the  Cathedral  of  Durham,  it  is  more  human 
than  either,  the  work  of  a  man  who,  as  it  were,  would  thank 
God  that  he  was  alive  and  glad  in  the  world.  And  it  will 
never  bring  us  delight  if  we  ask  of  it  all  the  consummate 
mystery,  awe,  and  magic  of  the  great  Gothic  churches  of  the 
North.  The  Tuscans  certainly  have  never  understood  the 
Christian  religion  as  we  have  contrived  to  do  in  Northern 
Europe.  It  came  to  them  really  as  a  sort  of  divine  explana- 
tion of  a  paganism  which  entranced  but  bewildered  them. 
Behind  it  lay  the  Roman  Empire;  and  its  temples  became 
their  churches,  its  halls  of  justice  their  cathedrals,  its  tongue 
the  only  language  understanded  of  the  gods.  It  is  unthink- 
able that  a  people  who  were  already  in  the  twelfth  century  the 
possessors  of  a  marvellous  decadent  art  in  the  pviinting  of  the 
Byzantine  school,  who,  finding  again  the  statues  of  the  gods, 
created  in  the  thirteenth  century  a  new  art  of  painting,  a 
Christian  art  that  was  the  child  of  imperial  Rome  as  well  as 
of  the  Christian  Church,  who  re-established  sculpture  and 
produced  the  only  sculptor  of  the  first  rank  in  the  modern 
world,  should  have  failed  altogether  in  architecture.  Yet 
everywhere  we  may  hear  it  said  that  the  Italian  churches, 
spoken  of  with  scorn  by  those  who  remember  the  strange, 


THE  DUOMO  175 

subtle  exaltation  of  Amiens,  the  extraordinary  intricate 
splendour  of  such  a  church  as  the  Cathedral  of  Toledo,  are 
mere  barns.  But  it  is  not  so.  As  Italian  painting  is  a 
profound  and  natural  development  from  Greek  and  Roman 
art,  certainly  influenced  by  life,  but  in  no  doubt  of  its 
parentage;  so  are  the  Italian  churches  a  very  beautiful  and 
subtle  development  of  pagan  architecture,  influenced  by  life 
not  less  profoundly  than  painting  has  been,  but  certainly  as 
sure  of  its  parentage,  and,  as  we  shall  see,  not  less  assured  of 
its  intention.  Just  as  painting,  as  soon  as  may  be,  becomes 
human,  becomes  pagan  in  Signorelli  and  Botticelli,  and  yet 
contrives  to  remain  true  to  its  new  gods,  so  architecture  as 
soon  as  it  is  sure  of  itself  moves  with  joy,  with  endless  delight 
and  thanksgiving,  towards  that  goal  of  the  old  builders:  in 
such  a  church  as  S.  Maria  della  Consolazione  outside  Todi, 
for  instance, — in  such  a  church  as  S.  Pietro  might  have  been, — 
and  that  it  is  not  so,  we  may  remind  ourselves,  is  the  fault  of 
that  return  to  barbarism  and  superstition  which  Luther  led  in 
the  North. 

What  then,  we  may  ask  ourselves,  was  the  aim  and  desire 
of  the  Italian  builders,  which  it  seems  has  escaped  us  for  so 
long  ?  If  we  turn  to  the  builders  of  antiquity  and  seek  for 
their  intention  in  what  remains  to  us  of  their  work,  we  shall 
find,  I  think,  that  their  first  aim  was  before  all  things  to  make 
the  best  building  they  could  for  a  particular  purpose,  and  to 
build  that  once  for  all.  And  out  of  these  two  intentions  the 
third  must  follow ;  for  if  a  temple,  for  instance,  were  both  fit 
and  strong  it  would  be  beautiful  because  the  purpose  for 
which  it  was  needed  was  noble  and  beautiful.  Now  the  first 
necessity  of  the  basilica,  for  instance,  was  space ;  and  the 
intention  of  the  builder  would  be  to  build  so  that  that  space 
should  appear  as  splendid  as  possible,  and  to  do  this  and  to 
enjoy  it  would  necessitate,  above  all  things,  light, — a  problem 
not  so  difficult  after  all  in  a  land  like  Italy,  where  the  sun  is 
so  faithful  and  so  divine.  Taking  the  necessity,  then,  of  the 
Italian  to  be  much  the  same  as  that  of  the  Roman  builder 
when  he  was  designing  a  basilica, — that  is  to  say,  the  accom- 


176    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

modation  of  a  crowd  of  people  who  are  to  take  part  in  a 
common  solemnity, — we  shall  find  that  the  intention  of  the 
Italian  in  building  his  churches  is  exactly  that  of  the  Roman 
in  building  his  basilica :  he  desires  above  all  things  space  and 
light,  partly  because  they  seem  to  him  necessary  for  the 
purpose  of  the  church,  and  partly  because  he  thinks  them  the 
two  most  splendid  and  majestic  things  in  the  world.  j 

Well,  he  has  altogether  carried  out  his  intention  in  half 
a  hundred  churches  up  and  down  Italy :  consider  here  in 
Florence  S.  Croce,  S.  Maria  Novella,  S.  Spirito,  and  above 
all  the  Duomo.  Remember  his  aim  was  not  the  aim  of  the 
Gothic  builder.  He  did  not  wish  to  impress  you  with  the 
awfulness  of  God,  like  the  builder  of  Barcelona ;  or  with  the 
mystery  of  the  Crucifixion,  like  the  builders  of  Chartres :  he 
wished  to  provide  for  you  in  his  practical  Latin  way  a  temple 
where  you  might  pray,  where  the  whole  city  might  hear  Mass 
or  applaud  a  preacher.  He  did  this  in  his  own  noble  and 
splendid  fashion  as  well  as  it  could  be  done.  He  has  never 
believed,  save  when  driven  mad  by  the  barbarians,  in  the 
mysterious  awfulness  of  our  far-away  God.  He  prays  as  a 
man  should  pray,  without  self-consciousness  and  not  without 
self-respect.  He  is  without  sentiment ;  he  believes  in  largeness, 
grandeur,  splendour,  and  sincerity;  and  he  has  known  the 
gods  for  three  thousand  years. 

What,  then,  we  are  to  look  for  in  entering  such  a  church  as 
S.  Maria  del  Fiore  is,  above  all,  a  noble  spaciousness  and  the 
beauty  of  just  that.^ 

The  splendour  and  nobility  of  S.  Maria  del  Fiore  from 
without  are  evident,  it  might  seem,  to  even  the  most  prejudiced 
observer ;  but  within,  I  think,  the  beauty  is  perhaps  less  easily 
perceived. 

One  comes  through  the  west  doors  out  of  the  sunshine  of 
the  Piazza  into  an  immense  nave,  and  the  light  is  that  of  an 

'  To  compare  an  Italian  church  with  a  French  cathedral  would  be  to 
compare  two  altogether  different  things,  a  fault  in  logic,  and  in  criticism 
the  unforgivable  sin  ;  for  a  work  of  art  must  be  judged  in  its  own  category, 
and  praised  only  for  its  own  qualities,  and  blamed  only  for  its  own  defects. 


THE  DUOMO  177 

olive  garden, — yes,  just  that  sparkling,  golden,  dancing  shadow 
of  a  day  of  spring  in  an  old  olive  grove  not  far  from  the  sea. 
In  this  delicate  and  fragile  light  the  beauty  and  spacious- 
ness of  the  church  is  softened  and  simplified.  You  do  not 
reason  any  longer,  you  accept  it  at  once  as  a  thing  complete 
and  perfect.  Complete  and  perfect, — yet  surely  spoiled  a  little 
by  the  gallery  that  dwarfs  the  arches  and  seems  to  introduce 
a  useless  detail  into  what  till  then  must  have  been  so  simple. 
One  soon  forgets  so  small  a  detail  in  the  immensity  and 
solemnity  of  the  whole,  that  seems  to  come  to  one  with  the 
assurance  of  the  sky  or  of  the  hills,  really  without  an  after- 
thought. And  indeed  I  find  there  much  of  the  strange 
simplicity  of  natural  things  that  move  us  we  know  not  why : 
the  autumn  fields  of  which  Alberti  speaks,  the  far  hills  at 
evening,  the  valleys  that  in  an  hour  will  make  us  both  glad 
and  sorry,  as  the  sun  shines  or  the  clouds  gather  or  the 
wind  sings  on  the  hills.  Not  a  church  to  think  in  as  St. 
Peter's  is,  but  a  place  where  one  may  pray,  said  Pius  ix  when 
he  first  saw  S.  Maria  del  Fiore :  and  certainly  it  has  that  in 
common  with  the  earth,  that  you  may  be  glad  in  it  as  well  as 
sorry.  It  is  not  a  museum  of  the  arts ;  it  is  not  a  pantheon 
like  Westminster  Abbey  or  S.  Croce ;  it  is  the  beautiful  house 
where  God  and  man  may  meet  and  walk  in  the  shadow. 

Yet  little  though  there  be  to  interest  the  curious  Giovanni 
Acuto,  that  Englishman  Sir  John  Hawkwood  of  the  White 
Company,  one  of  the  first  of  the  Condottieri,  the  deliverer  of 
Pisa,  **  the  first  real  general  of  modern  times,"  is  buried  here. 
You  may  see  his  equestrian  portrait  by  Paolo  Uccello  over 
the  north-west  doorway  in  his  habit  as  he  lived.  Having 
fought  against  the  Republic  and  died  in  its  service,  he  was 
buried  here  with  public  honours  in  1394.  And  then  in  the 
north  aisle  you  may  see  the  statue  called  a  portrait  of  Poggio 
Bracciolini,^  by  Donatello.  Donatello  carved  a  number  of 
statues,  of  which  nine  have  been  identified,  for  the  Opera  del 
Duomo,  three  of  these  are  now  in  the  Cathedral :  the  Poggio, 
the  so-called  Joshua  in  the  south  aisle,  which  has  been  said  to 
^  Cf.  DonatellOy  by  Lord  Rilcarres :  Duckworth,  1903,  p.  12, 
12 


178    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

be  a  portrait  of  Gianozzo  Manetti ;  and  the  St.  John  the  Evan- 
gelist in  the  eastern  part  of  the  nave.  The  Poggio  certainly 
belongs  to  the  series  :  it  would  be  delightful  if  the  cryptic 
writing  on  the  borders  of  the  garment  were  to  prove  it  to  be 
the  Job.  The  St.  John  Evangelist  is  an  earlier  work  than  the 
Poggio ;  it  was  begun  when  Donatello  was  twenty-two  years 
old,  and,  as  Lord  Balcarres  says,  "it  challenges  comparison 
with  one  worthy  rival,  the  Moses  of  Michelangelo."  It  was  to 
have  stood  on  one  side  of  the  central  door.  Something  of  the 
wonder  of  this  work  in  its  own  time  may  be  understood  if 
we  compare  it,  not  with  the  later  work  of  Michelangelo,  but 
with  the  statues  of  St.  Mark  by  Niccolo  d'Arezzo,  the  St.  Luke 
of  Nanni  di  Banco,  and  the  St.  Matthew  of  Bernardo  Ciuffagni, 
which  were  to  stand  beside  it  and  are  now  placed  in  a  good 
light  in  the  nave,  while  the  work  of  Donatello  is  almost 
invisible  in  this  dark  apsidal  chapel.  Of  the  other  works 
which  Donatello  made  for  the  Opera  del  Duomo,  the  David 
is  in  the  Bargello,  while  the  Jeremiah,  Habbakuk,  the  so-called 
Zuccone,  the  Abraham,  and  St.  John  Baptist  are  still  on  the 
Campanile. 

The  octagonal  choir  screens  carved  in  relief  by  Baccio 
Bandinelli,  whom  Cellini  hated  so  scornfully  because  he 
spoke  lightly  of  Michelangelo,  will  not  keep  you  long; 
but  there  behind  the  high  altar  is  an  unfinished  Pietk  by 
Michelangelo  himself.  It  is  a  late  work,  but  in  that  fallen 
Divine  Figure  just  caught  in  Madonna's  arms  you  may  see 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  church,  less  splendid 
but  more  pitiful  than  the  St  John  of  Donatello,  but  certainly 
not  less  moving  than  that  severe,  indomitable  son  of  thunder. 
Above,  the  dome  soars  into  heaven ;  that  mighty  dome, 
higher  than  St.  Peter's,  the  despair  of  Michelangelo,  one  of 
the  beauties  of  the  world.  One  wanders  about  the  church 
looking  at  the  bronze  doors  of  the  Sagrestia  Nuova,  or  the 
terra-cottas  of  Luca  della  Robbia,  always  to  return  to  that 
miracle  of  Brunellesco's.  Not  far  away  in  the  south  aisle  you 
come  upon  his  monument  with  his  portrait  in  marble  by 
Buggiano.     The  indomitable  persistence  of  the  face !     Is  it 


THE  DUOMO  179 

any  wonder  that,  impossible  as  his  dream  appeared,  he  had 
his  way  with  Florence  at  last — yes,  and  with  himself  too? 
As  you  stand  at  the  corner  of  Via  del  Proconsolo,  and, 
looking  upward,  see  that  immense  dome  soaring  into  the 
sky  over  that  church  of  marble,  something  of  the  joy  and 
confidence  and  beauty  that  were  immortal  in  him  comes  to 
you  too  from  his  work.  Like  Columbus,  he  conquered  a 
New  World.  His  schemes,  which  the  best  architects  in 
Europe  laughed  at,  were  treated  with  scorn  by  the  Consiglio, 
yet  he  persuaded  them  at  last.  In  14 18  he  made  his 
designs,  and  the  people  as  now  were  called  upon  to  vote. 
Two  years  went  by,  and  nothing  was  done;  then  in  1420  he 
was  elected  by  the  Opera  to  the  post  of  Provveditore  della 
Cupola,  but  not  alone,  for  Lorenzo  Ghiberti  and  Battista 
d' Antonio  were  elected  with  him.  Still  he  persisted,  and,  as 
the  Florentines  say,  by  pretending  sickness  and  leaving  the 
work  to  Ghiberti,  who  knew  nothing  about  it  and  could  do 
nothing  without  him,  in  142 1  he  won  over  the  Consiglio. 
He  began  at  once.  What  his  agonies  may  have  been,  what 
profound  difficulties  he  discovered  and  conquered,  we  do  not 
know,  but  by  1434,  when  Eugenius  iv  was  in  Florence  and 
the  Duomo  was  dedicated,  his  dome  was  finished,  wanting 
only  the  lantern  and  the  ball.  These  he  began  in  1437, 
but  died  too  soon  to  see,  for  the  lantern  was  not  finished 
till  1458,  and  it  was  only  in  147 1  that  Verrocchio  cast  the 
bronze  ball.^ 

Wandering  round  to  the  fagade,  finished  in  1886,  it  is  a 
careful  imitation  of  fifteenth-century  work  we  see,  saved  from 
the  mere  routine  of  just  that,  in  its  design  at  any  rate,  by 
the  vote  of  the  people,  who,  against  the  opinion  of  all  the 
artists  in  Florence  at  that  time,  insisted  on  the  cornice 
following  the  basilical  form  of  the  tower,  refusing  to  endorse 
the  pointed  "  tricuspidal "  design.  It  is  not,  however,  in  such 
merely  competent  work  as  this  that  we  shall  find  ourselves 

*  Not  the  ball  we  see  now,  which  was  struck  by  lightning  and  hurled 
into  the  street  in  1492.  Verrocchio's  was  rather  smaller  than  the  present 
ball. 


i8o    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

interested,  but  rather  in  the  beautiful  door  on  the  north, 
just  before  the  transept,  over  which,  in  an  almond-shaped 
glory,  Madonna  gives  her  girdle  to  St.  Thomas.  Given  now 
to  Nanni  di  Banco,  a  sculptor  of  the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  whom  Vasari  tells  us  was  the  pupil  of  Donatello, 
it  long  passed  as  the  work  of  Jacopo  della  Querela.  Cer- 
tainly one  of  the  loveliest  works  of  the  early  Renaissance, 
it  is  so  full  of  life  and  gracious  movement,  so  natural  and 
so  noble,  that  everything  else  in  the  Cathedral,  save  the  work 
of  Donatello,  is  forgotten  beside  it.  Madonna  enthroned 
among  the  Cherubim  in  her  oval  mandorla,  upheld  by  four 
puissant  fair  angels,  turns  to  St.  Thomas  with  a  gesture  most 
natural  and  lovely,  who  kneels  to  her,  his  drapery  in  beautiful 
folds  about  him,  and  lifts  his  hands  in  prayer.  Above,  three 
angels  play  on  pipes  and  reeds ;  while  in  a  comer  a  great  bear 
gnaws  at  the  bark  of  an  oak  in  full  leaf. 

In  turning  now  to  the  Campanile,  which  Giotto  began  in 
1334,  on  the  site  of  a  chapel  of  S.  Zenobio,  we  come  to  the 
last  building  of  the  great  group.  Fair  and  slim  as  a  lily,  as 
light  as  that,  as  airy  and  full  of  grace,  to  my  mind  at  least 
it  lacks  a  certain  stability,  so  that  looking  on  it  I  always  fear 
in  my  heart  lest  it  should  fall.  It  seems  to  lack  roots,  as  it 
were,  yet  by  no  means  to  want  confidence  or  force.  Can  it 
be  that,  after  all,  it  would  have  seemed  more  secure,  more 
firm  and  established,  if  the  spire  Giotto  designed  for  it  had 
in  truth  been  built?  The  consummate  and  supreme  artist, 
architect,  sculptor,  and  painter  was  not  content  to  design 
so  fair,  so  undreamed-of  a  flower  as  this,  but  set  himself  to 
make  the  statues  and  the  reliefs  that  were  necessary  also. 
And  then  has  he  not  built  as  only  a  painter  could  have 
done,  in  white  and  rose  and  green?  He  died  too  soon  to 
see  the  fairest  of  his  dreams,  and  it  is  really  to  two  other 
artists — Taddeo  Gaddi  and  Francesco  Talenti — that  the  actual 
work,  after  the  first  five  storeys — those  windows,  for  instance, 
that  add  so  much  to  the  beauty  of  the  tower — is  owing.^ 

'  See  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  History  of  Painting  in  Italy :  London, 
1903,  p.  116,  note  4. 


IIU--    M  All! 'SNA     Mil   A    tINIi'lA 


THE  CAMPANILE  i8i 

The  reliefs  that,  set  some  five-and-twenty  feet  from  the 
ground,  are  so  difficult  to  see,  are  the  work  of  Andrea  Pisano, 
the  sculptor  of  the  south  gate  of  the  Baptistery.  Born  at 
Pontedera,  the  pupil  of  Giovanni  Pisano,  this  great  and 
lovable  artist  has  been  robbed  of  much  that  belongs  to  him. 
Vasari  tells  us — and  for  long  we  believed  him — that  Giotto 
helped  him  to  design  the  gate  of  the  Baptistery ;  and  again, 
that  Giotto  designed  these  reliefs  for  Andrea  to  carve  and 
found.  It  might  seem  impossible  to  believe  that  the  greatest 
sculptor  then  living,  fresh  from  a  great  triumph,  would  have 
consented  to  use  the  design  of  a  painter,  even  though  he 
were  Giotto.  However  this  may  be,  the  reliefs  really  speak 
for  themselves :  those  on  the  south  side — early  Sabianism, 
house-building,  pottery,  training  horses,  weaving,  lawgiving, 
and  exploration — are  certainly  by  Andrea;  while  among  the 
rest  the  Jubal,  the  Creation  of  Man,  the  Creation  of  Woman, 
seem  to  be  his  own  among  the  work  of  his  pupils.  It  is  to 
quite  another  hand,  however,  to  Luca  della  Robbia,  that  the 
Grammar,  Poetry,  Philosophy,  Astrology,  and  Music  must 
be  given.  The  genius  of  Andrea  Pisano,  at  its  best  in 
those  Baptistery  gates,  in  the  panel  of  the  Baptism  of  our 
Lord,  for  instance,  or  in  those  marvellous  works  on  the  facade 
of  the  Duomo  at  Orvieto,  so  full  of  force,  vitality,  and  charm, 
is,  as  I  think,  less  fortunate  in  its  expression  when  he  is 
concerned  with  such  work  as  these  statues  of  the  prophets 
in  the  niches  on  the  south  wall  of  the  Campanile, — if  indeed 
they  be  his.  Seen  as  these  figures  are,  beside  the  large, 
splendid,  realistic  work  of  Donatello,  so  wonderfully  ugly  in 
the  Zuccone,  so  pitiless  in  the  Habakkuk,  they  are  quickly 
forgotten ;  but  indeed  Donatello's  work  seems  to  stand  alone 
in  the  history  of  sculpture  till  the  advent  of  Michelangelo. 

I  speak  of  Donatello  elsewhere  in  this  book,^  but  you  will 
find  one  of  his  best  works  among  much  curious,  interesting 
litter  from  the  Duomo  in  the  Opera  del  Duomo,  the 
Cathedral  Museum  in  the  old  Falconiori  Palace  just  behind 
the  apse  of  the  Cathedral.  A  bust  of  Cosimo  Primo  stands 
'  See  pp.  283-289, 


182     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

over  the  entrance,  and  within  you  find  a  beautiful  head  of 
Brunellesco  by  Buggiano.  It  is,  however,  in  a  room  on  the 
first  floor  that  you  will  find  the  great  organ  lofts,  one  by 
Donatello  and  the  other  by  Luca  della  Robbia,  which  I 
suppose  are  among  the  best  known  works  of  art  in  the  world. 
Made  for  the  Cathedral,  these  galleries  for  singers  seem  to  be 
imprisoned  in  a  museum. 

The  beautiful  youths  of  Luca,  the  children  of  Donatello,  for 
all  their  seeming  vigour  and  joy,  sing  and  dance  no  more ; 
they  are  in  as  evil  a  case  as  the  Madonnas  of  the  Uffizi,  who, 
in  their  golden  frames  behind  the  glass,  under  the  vulgar, 
indifferent  eyes  of  the  multitude,  envy  Madonna  of  the  street- 
comer  the  love  of  the  lowly.  So  it  is  with  the  beautiful 
Cantorie  made  for  God's  praise  by  Donatello  and  Luca  della 
Robbia.  Before  the  weary  eyes  of  the  sight-seer,  the  cold 
eyes  of  the  scientific  critic,  in  the  horrid  silence  of  a  museum, 
amid  so  much  that  is  dead,  here  the  headless  trunk  of  some 
saint,  there  the  battered  fragments  of  what  was  once  a  statue, 
some  shadow  has  fallen  upon  them,  and  though  they  keep 
still  the  gesture  of  joy,  they  are  really  dead  or  sleeping.  Is  it 
only  sleep  ?  Do  they  perhaps  at  night,  when  all  the  doors  of 
their  prisons  are  barred  and  their  gaolers  are  gone,  praise  God 
in  His  Holiness,  even  in  such  a  hell  as  this  ?  Who  knows  ? 
They  were  made  for  a  world  so  different,  for  a  time  that  out 
of  the  love  of  God  had  seen  arise  the  very  beauty  of  the  world, 
and  were  glad  therefor.  Ah,  of  how  many  beautiful  things 
have  we  robbed  God  in  our  beggary !  We  have  imprisoned 
the  praise  of  the  artists  in  the  museums  that  Science  may  pass 
by  and  sneer;  we  have  arranged  the  saints  in  order,  and 
Madonna  we  have  carefully  hidden  under  the  glass,  because 
now  we  never  dream  of  God  or  speak  with  Him  at  all. 
Art  is  dying,  Beauty  is  become  a  burden,  Nature  a  thing  for 
science  and  not  for  love.  They  are  become  too  precious,  the 
old  immortal  things ;  we  must  hide  them  away  lest  they  fade 
and  God  take  them  from  us :  and  because  we  have  hidden 
them  away,  and  they  are  become  too  precious  for  life,  and  we 
have  killed  them  because  we  loved  them,  we  seldom  pass  by 


THE  OPERA  DEL  DUOMO  183 

where  they  are  save  to  satisfy  the  same  curiosity  that  leads  us 
to  any  other  charnel-house  where  the  dead  are  exposed. 

Thus  they  have  stolen  away  the  silver  altar  of  the  Baptistery, 
that  miracle  of  the  fourteenth-century  silversmiths,  Betto  di 
Geri,  Leonardo  di  Ser  Giovanni,  and  the  rest,  that  it  may  be 
a  cause  of  wonder  in  a  museum.  So  a  flower  looks  between 
the  cold  pages  of  a  botanist's  album,  so  a  bird  sings  in  his 
cage :  for  life  is  to  do  that  for  which  we  were  created,  and  if 
that  be  the  praise  of  God  in  His  sanctuary,  to  stand  impotently 
by  under  the  gaze  of  innumerable  unbelievers  in  a  museum  is 
to  die.  And  truly  this  is  a  shame  in  Italy  that  so  many  fair 
and  lovely  things  have  been  torn  out  of  their  places  to  be 
catalogued  in  a  gallery.  It  were  a  thousand  times  better  that 
they  were  allowed  to  fade  quietly  on  the  walls  of  the  church 
where  they  were  bom.  It  is  a  vandalism  only  possible  to  the 
modem  world  in  which  the  machines  have  ground  out  every 
human  feeling  and  left  us  nothing  but  a  bestial  superstition 
which  we  call  science,  and  which  threatens  to  become  the 
worst  tyranny  of  all,  that  we  should  thus  herd  together, 
catalogue,  describe,  arrange,  and  gape  at  every  work  of  art 
and  nature  we  can  lay  our  hands  on.  No  doubt  it  brings  in, 
directly  and  indirectly,  an  immense  revenue  to  the  country 
which  can  show  the  most  of  such  death  chambers.  Often 
by  chance  or  mistake  one  has  wandered  into  a  museum — 
though  I  confess  I  never  understood  in  what  relation  it  stood 
to  the  Muses — where  your  scientist  has  collected  his  scraps  and 
refuse  of  Nature,  things  that  were  wonderful  or  beautiful  once — 
birds,  butterflies,  the  marvellous  life  of  the  foetus,  and  such — 
but  that  in  his  hands  have  died  in  order  that  he  may  set  them 
out  and  number  them  one  by  one.  Here  you  will  find  a  leg 
that  once  stood  firm  enough,  there  an  arm  that  once  for  sure 
held  someone  in  its  embrace :  now  it  is  exposed  to  the  horror 
and  curiosity  of  mankind.  Well,  it  is  the  same  with  the 
pictures  and  the  statues.  Why,  men  have  prayed  before 
them,  they  have  heard  voices,  tears  have  fallen  where  they 
stood,  and  they  have  whispered  to  us  of  the  beauty  and  the  love 
of  God.     To-day,  herded  in  thousands,  chained  to  the  walls  of 


1 84    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

their  huge  dungeons,  they  are  just  specimens  like  the  dead 
butterflies  which  we  pay  to  see,  which  some  scientific  critic 
without  any  care  for  beauty  will  measure  and  describe  in  the 
inarticulate  and  bestial  syllables  of  some  degenerate  dialect  he 
thinks  b  language.  Our  unfortunate  gods  !  How  much  more 
fortunate  were  they  of  the  older  world :  Zeus,  whose  statue 
of  ivory  and  gold  mysteriously  was  stolen  away ;  Aphrodite  of 
Cnidus,  which  someone  hid  for  love ;  and  you,  O  Victory  of 
Samothrace,  that  being  headless  you  cannot  see  the  curious, 
peeping,  indifferent  multitude.  Was  it  for  this  the  Greeks 
blinded  their  statues,  lest  the  gods  being  in  exile,  they  might 
be  shamed  by  the  indifference  of  men  ?  And  now  that  our 
gods  too  are  exiled,  who  will  destroy  their  images  and  their 
pictures  crowded  in  the  museums,  that  the  foolish  may  not 
speak  of  them  we  have  loved,  nor  the  scientist  say,  such  and 
such  they  were,  in  stature  of  such  a  splendour,  carved  by  such 
a  man,  the  friend  of  the  friend  of  a  fool  ?  But  our  gods  are 
dead. 


XIII 
FLORENCE 

OR  SAN  MICHELE 

OR  SAN  MICHELE,  S.  Michele  in  Orto,  was  till  the 
middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  a  little  church  belong- 
ing, as  it  is  said,  to  the  Cistercians,  who  certainly  claimed  the 
patronage  of  it.  About  1260,  however,  the  Commune  of 
Florence  began  to  dispute  this  right  with  the  Order,  and  at 
last  pulled  down  the  church,  building  there,  thirty  years  later, 
a  loggia  of  brick,  after  a  design  of  Amolfo  di  Cambio,  accord- 
ing to  Vasari,  who  tells  us  that  it  was  covered  with  a  simple 
roof  and  that  the  piers  were  of  brick.  This  loggia  was  the 
corn-market  of  the  city,  a  shelter,  too,  for  the  contadini  who 
came  to  show  their  samples  and  to  talk,  gossip,  and  chaffer,  as 
they  do  everywhere  in  Italy  even  to-day.  And,  as  was  the 
custom,  they  made  a  shrine  of  Madonna  there,  hanging  on 
one  of  the  brick  pillars  a  picture  {tavola)  of  Madonna  that,  as 
it  is  said,  was  the  work  of  Ugolino  da  Siena.  This  shrine 
soon  became  famous  for  the  miracles  Madonna  wrought  there. 
•'  On  July  3rd,"  says  Giovanni  Villani,  writing  of  the  year 
1292,  "great  and  manifest  miracles  began  to  be  shown  forth 
in  the  city  of  Florence  by  a  figure  of  Saint  Mary  which  was 
painted  on  a  pilaster  of  the  loggia  of  S.  Michele  d'Orto, 
where  the  corn  was  sold ;  the  sick  were  healed,  the  deformed 
were  made  straight,  and  those  who  were  possessed  of  devils 
were  delivered  from  them  in  numbers."  In  the  previous  year 
the  Compagni  di  Or  San  Michele,  called  the  I^udesi,  had 
been  established,  and  this  Company,  putting  the  fame  of  the 

186 


1 86    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

miracles  to  good  use,  grew  rich,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the 
Friars  Minor  and  the  Dominicans.  "The  Preaching  Friars 
and  the  Friars  Minor  likewise,"  says  Villani,  "through  envy 
or  some  other  cause,  would  put  no  faith  in  that  image, 
whereby  they  fell  into  great  infamy  with  the  people.  But 
so  greatly  grew  the  fame  of  these  miracles  and  the  merits 
of  Our  Lady,  that  pilgrims  flocked  thither  from  all  Tuscany 
for  her  festas,  bringing  divers  waxen  images  because  of  the 
wonders,  so  that  a  great  part  of  the  loggia  in  front  of  and 
around  Madonna  was  filled."  Cavalcanti,  too,  speaks  of 
Madonna  di  Or  San  Michele,  likening  her  to  his  Lady,  in  a 
sonnet  which  scandalised  Guido  Orlandi — 

"Guido  an  image  of  my  Lady  dwells 
At  S.  Michele  in  Orto,  consecrate 
And  duly  worshipped.     Fair  in  holy  state 
She  listens  to  the  tale  each  sinner  tells : 
And  among  them  that  come  to  her,  who  ails 
The  most,  on  him  the  most  doth  blessing  wait. 
She  bids  the  fiend  men's  bodies  abdicate ; 
Over  the  curse  of  blindness  she  prevails. 
And  heals  sick  languors  in  the  public  squares. 
A  multitude  adores  her  reverently : 
Before  her  face  two  burning  tapers  are ; 
Her  voice  is  uttered  upon  paths  afar. 
Yet  through  the  Lesser  Brethren's  jealousy 
She  is  named  idol ;  not  being  one  of  theirs.' 

The  feuds  of  Neri  and  Bianchi  at  this  time  distracted 
Florence ;  at  the  head  of  the  Blacks,  though  somewhat  their 
enemy,  was  Corso  Donati ;  at  the  head  of  the  Whites  were  the 
Cerchi  and  the  Cavalcanti.  After  the  horrid  disaster  of  May 
Day,  when  the  Carraja  bridge,  crowded  with  folk  come  to 
see  that  strange  carnival  of  the  other  world,  fell  and  drowned 
so  many,  there  had  been  much  fighting  in  the  city,  in  which 
Corso  Donati  stood  neutral,  for  he  was  ill  with  gout,  and 
angered  with  the  Black  party.  Robbed  thus  of  their  great 
leader,  the  Neri  were  beaten  day  and  night  by  the  Cerchi, 
who  with  the  aid  of  the  Cavalcanti  and  Gherardini  rode 
through  the  city  as  far  as  the  Mercato  Vecchio  and  Or  San 

'  Rossetti's  translation  of  Guido  Cavalcantj's  Sonnet  written  in  exile. 


,1S',     !■.■•,         i    )•    .M      I  III      C  A-.   1  ■  'IIA     "I       I.'    .    A     1>1    1    1     \     U'    iwr  \ 


OR  SAN  MICHELE  187 

Michele,  and  from  there  to  S.  Giovanni,  and  certainly  they 
would  have  taken  the  city  with  the  help  of  the  Ghibellines, 
who  were  come  to  their  aid,  if  one  Ser  Neri  Abati,  clerk  and 
prior  of  S.  Piero  Scheraggio,  a  dissolute  and  worldly  man,  and 
a  rebel  and  enemy  against  his  friends,  had  not  set  fire  to  the 
houses  of  his  family  in  Or  San  Michele,  and  to  the  Florentine 
Calimala  near  to  the  entrance  of  Mercato  Vecchio.  This  fire 
did  enormous  damage,  as  Villani  tells  us,  destroying  not  only 
the  houses  of  the  Abati,  the  Macci,  the  Amieri,  the  Toschi, 
the  Cipriani,  Lamberti,  Bachini,  Buiamonti,  Cavalcanti,  and  all 
Calimala,  together  with  all  the  street  of  Porte  S.  Marie,  as 
far  as  Ponte  Vecchio  and  the  great  towers  and  houses  there, 
but  also  Or  San  Michele  itself.  In  this  disaster  who  knows 
what  became  of  the  miracle  picture  of  Madonna  ?  For  years 
the  loggia  lay  in  ruins,  till  peace  being  established  in  1336, 
the  Commune  decided  to  rebuild  it,  giving  the  work  into  the 
hands  of  the  Guild  of  Silk,  who,  according  to  Vasari,  em- 
ployed Taddeo  Gaddi  as  architect.  The  first  stone  of  the 
new  building  was  laid  on  July  29,  1337,  the  old  brick  piers, 
according  to  Villani,  being  removed,  and  pillars  of  stone  set 
up  in  their  stead.^  In  1339  the  Guild  of  Silk  won  leave  from 
the  Commune  to  build  in  each  of  these  stone  piers  a  niche, 
which  later  should  hold  a  statue ;  while  above  the  loggia  was 
built  a  great  storehouse  for  com,  as  well  as  an  official  residence 
for  the  officers  of  the  market. 

Nine  years  later  there  followed  the  great  plague,  of  which 
Boccaccio  has  left  us  so  terrible  an  impression.  In  this 
dreadful  calamity,  which  swept  away  nearly  two-thirds  of  the 
population,  the  Compagnia  di  Or  San  Michele  grew  very  wealthy, 
many  citizens  leaving  it  all  their  possessions.  No  doubt  very 
much  was  distributed  in  charity,  for  the  Company  had  become 
the  greatest  charitable  society  in  the  city,  but  by  1347,  so 

'  Franceschini,  however,  in  his  record  {L' Oratorio  di  S.  Michele  in  Orto 
in  Firenze :  P.  Franceschini :  Firenze,  1892),  says  that  the  Tabernacle 
of  Orcagna  was  built  round  the  old  brick  pillars.  It  may  well  be  that  the 
pillar  on  which  the  Madonna  was  painted  or  was  hung  (for  it  is  not  clear 
whether  the  painting  was  a  panel  or  a  wall  painting)  was  saved  while  the 
rest  were  destroyed. 


i88     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

great  was  its  wealth,  that  it  resolved  to  build  the  most  splendid 
shrine  in  Italy  for  the  Madonna  di  Or  San  Michele.  The  loggia 
was  not  yet  finished,  and  after  the  desolation  of  the  plague 
the  Commune  was  probably  too  embarrassed  to  think  of 
completing  it  immediately.  Some  trouble  certainly  seems  to 
have  arisen  between  the  Guild  of  Silk,  who  had  charge  of  the 
fabric,  and  the  Company,  who  were  only  concerned  for  their 
shrine,  the  latter,  in  spite  of  the  wealth,  refusing  in  any  way 
to  assist  in  finishing  the  building.  Whether  from  this  cause 
or  not,  a  certain  suspicion  of  the  Company  began  to  rise  in 
Florence,  and  Matteo  Villani  roundly  accuses  the  Capitani 
della  Compagnia  of  peculation  and  corruption.  However 
this  may  be,  by  1355  Andrea  Orcagna  had  been  chosen  to 
build  the  shrine  of  Madonna,  which  is  still  to-day  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  city.  It  seems  to  have  been  in  a  sort  of 
recognition  of  the  splendour  and  beauty  of  Orcagna's  work 
that  the  Signoria,  between  1355  and  1359,  removed  the  corn- 
market  elsewhere,  and  thus  gave  up  the  whole  loggia  to  the 
shrine  of  Madonna.  Thus  the  loggia  became  a  church,  the 
great  popular  church  of  Florence,  built  by  the  people  for  their 
own  use,  in  what  had  once  been  the  corn-market  of  the  city. 
The  architect  of  this  strange  and  secular  building,  more  like 
a  palace  than  a  church,  is  unknown.  Vasari,  as  I  have  said, 
speaks  of  Taddeo  Gaddi ;  others  again  have  thought  it  the 
work  of  Orcagna  himself;  while  Francesco  Talenti  and  his 
son  Simone  are  said  to  have  worked  on  it.  The  question  is 
to  a  large  extent  a  matter  of  indifference.  What  is  important 
here  is  the  fact  that  it  is  to  the  greater  Guilds  and  to  the  Parte 
Guelfa  that  we  owe  the  church  itself — that  is  to  say,  to  the 
merchants  and  trades  of  the  city — while  the  beautiful  shrine 
within  is  due  to  a  secular  Company  consisting  of  some  of  the 
greatest  citizens,  and  to  a  large  extent  opposed  to  the  regular 
Orders  of  Sl  Dominic  and  St.  Francis.  It  is,  then,  as  the  great 
church  of  the  popolo  that  we  have  to  consider  Or  San  Michele. 
Here,  because  their  greatest  and  most  splendid  deed,  the 
expulsion  of  the  Duke  of  Athens,  had  been  achieved  on  St. 
Anne's  Day,  July  26,  1343,  they  built  a  chapel  to  St.  Anne, 


OR  SAN  MICHELE  189 

and  around  the  church  on  every  anniversary,  above  the  four- 
teen niches  which  hold  the  statues  presented  by  the  seven 
greater  arts,  by  six  of  the  fourteen  lesser  arts,  and  by  the 
Magistrato  della  Mercanzia,  that  magistracy  which  governed 
all  the  guilds,^  their  banners  are  set  up  even  to  this  day. 

The  great  Guild  of  Wool  was  already  responsible  for  the 
Duomo,  and  it  was  for  this  reason,  it  might  seem,  that  to  the 
Guild  of  Silk  was  given  the  care  of  Or  San  Michele;  not 
altogether  without  jealousy,  it  might  seem,  for  when  they  had 
asked  leave  to  place  the  image  of  their  saint  in  one  of  the 
niches  there,  all  the  other  guilds  had  demanded  a  like  favour, 
thus  in  an  especial  manner  marking  the  place  as  the  Church 
of  the  Merchants,  the  true  popolo ;  the  great  popular  shrine  of 
Florence,  therefore,  since  Florence  was  a  city  of  merchants. 

It  is  on  the  south  side,  in  the  niche  nearest  to  Via  Calzaioli, 
that  the  Guild  of  Silk  set  its  statue  of  St.  John  the  Evan- 
gelist by  Baccio  da  Montelupo ;  next  to  it  is  an  empty  niche 
belonging  to  the  Guild  of  Apothecaries  and  Doctors.  Here 
a  Madonna  and  Child  by  Simone  Ferrucci  once  stood,  but, 
owing  to  a  rumour  current  in  the  seventeenth  century,  that 
Madonna  sometimes  moved  her  eyes,  the  statue  was  placed 
inside  the  church,  so  that  the  crowd  which  always  collected 
to  see  this  miracle  might  no  longer  stop  the  way.  In  the 
next  niche  the  Furriers  placed  a  statue  of  St.  James  by  Nanni 
di  Banco,  and  beyond,  the  Guild  of  Linen  set  up  a  statue  of 
St,  Mark  by  Donatello.  On  the  west,  in  the  first  niche,  is 
S.  Lo,  the  patron  of  the  Furriers,  carved  by  Nanni  di  Banco, 
and  beyond,  St.  Stephen,  set  there  by  the  Guild  of  Wool  and 
carved  by  Ghiberti ;  while  next  to  him  stands  St.  Matthew,  set 
there  by  the  Bankers  and  carved  by  Ghiberti,  and  cast  in 
1422  by  Michelozzo.  On  the  north,  Donatello's  statue  of 
St.  George  used  to  fill  the  first  niche,  somewhat  shallower  than 

^  The  Parte  Guelfa  originally  set  up  their  statue  of  St.  Louis  of  Toulouse, 
carved  by  Donatello,  in  the  place  where  now  stands  the  statue  of  Magis- 
trates, the  group  of  Christ  and  St.  Thomas  made  by  Verrocchio.  Eight 
of  the  fourteen  lesser  arts  are  not  represented — namely,  the  Bakers,  the 
Carpenters,  the  Leatherworkers,  the  Saddlers,  the  Innkeepers,  the  Vintners, 
and  the  Cheesemongers. 


I90    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  rest  owing  to  a  staircase  inside  the  church,  but  it  was 
removed  to  the  Bargello  for  fear  of  the  weather :  the  beautiful 
relief,  also  by  Donatello,  below  the  copy,  is  still  in  its  place, 
under  the  St.  George  of  the  Armourers.  The  four  statues  in 
the  next  niche  were  placed  there  by  the  Guilds  of  Sculptors, 
Masons,  Smiths,  and  Bricklayers ;  they  are  the  work  of  Nanni 
di  Banco.  Further,  is  the  St.  Philip  of  the  Shoemakers,  again 
by  Nanni  di  Banco,  and  the  Sl  Peter  of  the  Butchers,  by 
Donatello.  On  the  east  stands  St.  Luke,  placed  there  by  the 
Notaries,  and  carved  by  Giovanni  da  Bologna ;  the  great  bronze 
group  of  Christ  and  St.  Thomas,  the  gift  of  the  Magistrato 
della  Mercanzia,  the  governor  of  all  the  guilds;  and  the  St 
John  Baptist,  the  gift  of  the  Calimala,  and  the  work  of 
Ghiberti:  this  last  was  the  first  statue  placed  here — in 
1414. 

Nanni  di  Banco,  that  delightful  sculptor  of  the  Madonna 
della  Cintola  of  the  Duomo,  has  thus  four  works  here  at 
Or  San  Michele — the  S.  Lo,  the  group  on  the  north  side,  the 
St.  Philip,  and  the  St.  James.  The  group  which  represents  the 
four  masons  who,  being  Christians,  refused  to  build  a  Pagan 
temple,  and  were  martyred  long  and  long  ago,  and  the  St. 
Philip,  have  little  merit ;  and  though  the  S.  Lo  has  a  certain 
force,  and  the  relief  below  it  a  wonderful  simplicity,  they  lack 
altogether  the  charm  of  the  Madonna  della  Cintola. 

Ghiberti  has  three  works  here — the  St.  Stephen,  the  St. 
Matthew,  and  the  St.  John  Baptist,  the  only  sculptures  of  the 
kind  he  ever  produced.  Full  of  energy  though  the  St.  Stephen 
may  be,  it  has  about  it  a  sort  of  divine  modesty  that  lends 
it  a  charm  altogether  beyond  anything  we  may  find  in  the 
St.  John  Baptist,  a  figure  full  of  character,  nevertheless.  It 
is,  however,  in  the  St.  Matthew  that  we  see  Ghiberti  at  his 
best  perhaps,  in  a  figure  for  once  full  of  strength,  and 
altogether  splendid. 

Donatello,  too,  had  three  figures  here  beside  the  relief 
beneath  the  St.  George.  The  St.  Peter  on  the  north  side  is 
probably  the  earliest  work  done  for  Or  San  Michele,  and  is 
certainly  the  poorest.     The  St.   Mark  on  the  south  side  is, 


OR  SAN  MICHELE  191 

however,  a  fine  example  of  his  earlier  manner,  with  a  certain 
largeness,  strength,  and  liberty  about  it,  a  frankness,  too,  in 
expression,  so  that  he  has  made  us  believe  in  the  goodness 
of  the  Apostle,  which,  as  Michelangelo  is  reported  to  have 
said,  must  have  vouched  for  the  truth  of  what  he  taught. 

The  masterpiece,  certainly,  of  these  Tuscan  sculptures  is 
the  bronze  group  of  Christ  and  St.  Thomas  by  Verrocchio, 
which  I  have  so  loved.  All  the  work  of  this  master  is  full 
of  eagerness  and  force  :  something  of  that  strangeness  without 
which  there  is  no  excellent  beauty,  that  later  was  so  character- 
istic of  the  work  of  his  pupil  Leonardo,  you  will  find  in  this 
work  also,  a  subtlety  sometimes  a  little  elaborate,  that,  as  I 
think,  is  but  a  sort  of  over-eagerness  to  express  all  he  has 
thought  to  say.  Donatello  prepared  this  niche  for  him  at  the 
end  of  his  life — it  was  almost  his  last  work  ;  and  Verrocchio, 
after  many  years  of  labour,  had  thought  to  place  here  really  his 
masterpiece,  in  the  church  that,  more  than  any  other,  belonged 
to  the  people  of  the  city,  that  middle  class,  as  we  might  say, 
from  which  he  sprang.  How  perfectly,  and  yet  not  altogether 
without  affectation,  he  has  composed  that  difficult  scene,  so 
that  St.  Thomas  stands  a  little  out  of  the  setting,  and  places 
his  finger — yes,  almost  as  a  child  might  do — in  the  wounded 
side  of  Jesus,  who  stands  majestically  fair  before  him.  It  is 
true  the  drapery  is  complicated,  a  little  heavy  even,  but  with 
what  care  he  has  remembered  everything !  Consider  the 
grace  of  those  beautiful  folds,  the  beauty  of  the  hair,  the 
loveliness  of  the  hands :  and  then,  as  Burckhardt  reminds  us, 
as  a  piece  of  work  founded  and  cast  in  bronze,  it  is  almost 
inimitable. 

Within,  the  church  is  strange  and  splendid.  It  is  as  though 
one  stood  in  a  loggia  in  deep  shadow,  at  the  end  of  the  day  in 
the  last  gold  of  the  sunset ;  and  there,  amid  the  ancient  fading 
glory  of  the  frescoes,  is  the  wonderful  shrine  that  Orcagna 
made  for  the  picture  of  Madonna,  who  had  turned  the  Granary 
of  S.  Michele  into  the  Church  of  the  People.  Finished  in 
1359,  this  tabernacle  is  the  loveliest  work  of  the  kind  in  Italy, 


192     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

an  unique  masterpiece,  and  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  example 
of  the  Italian  Gothic  manner  in  existence.  Orcagna  seems  to 
have  been  at  work  on  it  for  some  ten  years,  covering  it  with 
decoration  and  carving  those  reliefs  of  the  Life  of  the  Virgin 
in  that  grand  style  which  he  had  found  in  Giotto  and  learned 
perhaps  from  Andrea  Pisano.  To  describe  the  shrine  itself 
would  be  impossible  and  useless.  It  is  like  some  miniature 
and  magic  church,  a  casquet  made  splendid  not  with  jewels 
but  with  beauty,  where  the  miracle  picture  of  Madonna — not 
that  ancient  and  wonderful  picture  by  Ugolino  da  Siena,  but 
a  work,  it  is  said,  of  Bernardo  Daddi — glows  under  the  lamps. 
On  the  west  side,  in  front  of  the  altar,  Orcagna  has  carved 
the  Marriage  of  the  Virgin  and  the  Annunciation ;  on  the 
south,  the  Nativity  of  Our  Lord  and  the  Adoration  of  the 
Magi ;  on  the  north,  the  Presentation  of  the  Virgin  and  her 
Birth ;  and  on  the  east,  the  Purification  and  the  Annunciation 
of  her  Death.  And  above  these  last,  in  a  panel  of  great 
beauty,  he  has  carved  the  Death  of  the  Virgin,  where,  among 
the  Apostles  crowding  round  her  bed,  while  St.  Thomas — or 
is  it  St.  John? — passionately  kisses  her  feet,  Jesus  Himself 
stands  with  her  soul  in  His  arms,  that  little  Child  which  had 
first  entered  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Above  this  sorrowful 
scene  you  may  see  the  Glory  and  Assumption  of  Our  Lady 
in  a  mandorla  glory,  upheld  by  six  angels,  while  St.  Thomas 
kneels  below,  stretching  out  his  arms,  assured  at  last.  It 
is,  as  it  were,  the  prototype  of  the  Madonna  della  Cintola, 
that  exquisite  and  lovely  relief  which  Nanni  di  Banco  carved 
later  for  the  north  gate  of  the  Duomo,  only  here  all  the  sweet- 
ness that  Nanni  has  seen  and  expressed  seems  to  be  lost  in  a 
sort  of  solemnity  and  strength. 

Between  these  panels  Orcagna  has  set  the  virtues  Theo- 
logical and  Cardinal,  little  figures  of  much  force  and  beauty ; 
and  at  the  corners  he  has  carved  angels  bearing  palms  and 
lilies.  Some  who  have  seen  this  shrine  so  loaded  with 
ornament,  so  like  some  difficult  and  complicated  canticle, 
have  gone  away  disappointed  ;  remembering  the  strength  and 
significance  of  Orcagna's  work  in  fresco,  they  have  perhaps 


OR  SAN  MICHELE  193 

looked  for  some  more  simple  thing,  and  indeed  for  a  less 
rhetorical  praise.  Yet  I  think  it  is  rather  the  fault  of  Or  San 
Michele  than  of  the  shrine  itself,  that  it  does  not  certainly 
vanquish  any  possible  objection  and  assure  us  at  once  of  its 
perfection  and  beauty.  If  it  were  to  be  seen  in  the  beautiful 
spacious  transept  of  S.  Croce,  or  even  in  Santo  Spirito  across 
Arno,  that  sense  as  of  something  elaborate  and  complicated 
would  perhaps  not  be  felt ;  but  here  in  Or  San  Michele  one 
seems  to  have  come  upon  a  priceless  treasure  in  a  cave. 


J3 


XIV 
FLORENCE 

PALAZZO   RICCARDI,   AND  THE   RISE   OF 
THE   MEDICI 

IT  is  in  the  Ciompi  rising  of  1278,  that  social  revolution 
in  which  all  Florence  seems  for  once  to  have  been 
interested,  that  we  catch  really  for  the  first  time  the  name 
of  Medici.  In  1352,  Salvestro  de'  Medici — non  gia  Salvestro 
ma  Salvator  mundi.  Franco  Sacchetti  calls  him  —  had  led 
the  Florentines  against  the  Archbishop  of  Milan,  and  in 
1370,  for  the  first  time,  he  had  been  chosen  Gonfaloniere 
of  Justice.  He  was  filling  this  office  against  the  wishes 
of  the  Parte  Guelfa,  when,  not  without  his  connivance,  the 
Ciompi  riot  broke  out  against  the  magnates,  whose  power 
he  had  sought  to  break  by  means  of  the  Ordinances  of 
Justice. 

The  result  of  that  bloody  struggle  was  really  a  victory  for 
the  Arti  Maggiori,  the  Arti  Minori  being  bribed  with  promises 
and  thus  separated  from  the  populace,  who  had  sided  with  the 
Parte  Guelfa,  which  was  beaten  for  ever.  The  oligarchy  was 
saved,  but  the  struggle  between  rich  and  poor  was  by  no 
means  over.  Soon  the  older  Guilds  seem  to  lose  grip,  and  we 
see  instead  great  trusts  arising,  associations  of  wealth,  and 
above  all.  Banking  Companies.  What  was  wanting  in 
Florence,  as  elsewhere  in  Italy,  was  some  legitimate  authority 
that  might  have  guided  the  people  in  their  desire  for  power. 
As  it  was,  we  see  the  city  divided  into  classes,  each  anxious  to 
gain  power   at   the   expense   of  others,  the   result  being  an 

IM 


PALAZZO  RICCARDI  195 

oligarchy,  continually  a  prey  to  schism,  merely  waiting  for  a 
despot  to  declare  himself. 

Seemingly  in  the  hands  of  a  group  of  families  without  any 
legitimate  right,  the  government  was  really  in  the  power 
of  one  among  them,  and  thus  of  one  man,  the  head  of  it, 
Maso  degli  Albizzi.  Brilliant,  clever,  and  fascinating,  Maso 
ruled  with  a  certain  strength  and  generosity ;  but  Florence  was 
a  city  of  merchants,  and  between  the  Scylla  of  oligarchy  and 
the  Charybdis  of  despotism,  was  really  driven  into  the  latter  by 
her  economic  position.  The  Duke  Gian  Galeazzo  of  Milan 
closed  the  trade  routes,  and  Florence  was  compelled  to  fight 
for  her  life.  Pisa,  too,  had  to  be  overcome,  again  for 
economic  reasons,  and  in  14 14  a  long  war  with  King 
Ladislaus  brought  Cortona  into  the  power  of  the  Republic ; 
but  all  these  wars  cost  money,  and  the  taxes  pressed  on  the 
poor,  who  obtained  no  advantage  from  them.  Maso's  son 
Rinaldo,  who  succeeded  him  before  the  wars  were  over,  had 
less  ability  than  his  father,  and  was  certainly  less  beloved  ;  he 
seems,  however,  to  have  been  upright  and  incorruptible.  He 
was,  nevertheless,  capable  of  mistakes,  and,  while  engaged  in 
war  with  Milan,  attempted  to  seize  Lucca.  At  length,  when 
the  grumbling  of  the  poor  had  already  gone  too  far,  he 
readjusted  the  taxes,  and  thus  alienated  the  rich  also.  His 
own  party  was  divided,  he  himself  heading  the  more  con- 
servative party,  which  refused  to  listen  to  the  clamour  of  the 
wealthier  families  for  a  part  in  the  government,  while  Niccolb 
Uzzano,  with  the  more  liberal  party,  would  have  admitted  them. 
Among  these  wealthy  families  excluded  from  the  government 
was  the  Medici. 

The  Medici  had  been  banished  after  the  Ciompi  riots,  but  a 
branch  of  the  family  had  returned,  and  was  already  established 
in  the  affections  of  the  people.  To  the  head  of  this  branch, 
Giovanni  de'  Medici,  all  the  enemies  of  Rinaldo  looked  with 
hope.  This  extraordinary  man,  who  certainly  was  the  founder 
of  the  greatness  of  his  house,  had  long  since  understood  that 
in  such  an  oligarchy  as  that  of  Florence,  the  wealthiest  must 
win.     He  had  busied  himself  to  establish  his  name  and  credit 


196    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

everywhere  in  Europe.  He  refused  to  take  any  open  and 
active  part  in  the  fight  that  he  foresaw  must,  with  patience, 
decide  in  his  favour,  but  on  his  death,  Cosimo,  his  elder 
son,  no  longer  put  off  the  crisis.  He  opposed  Rinaldo  for  the 
control  of  the  Signoria,  and  was  beaten,  in  spite  of  every  sort 
of  bribery  and  corruption.  It  fell  out  that  Bernardo  Guadagni, 
whom  Rinaldo  had  made  his  creature,  was  chosen  Gonfaloniere 
for  the  months  of  September  and  October  1433.  Rinaldo  at 
once  went  to  him  and  persuaded  him  that  the  greatest  danger 
to  the  State  was  the  wealth  of  Cosimo,  who  had  inherited  vast 
riches,  including  some  sixteen  banks  in  various  European 
cities,  from  his  father.  He  encouraged  him  to  arrest  Cosimo, 
and  to  have  no  fear,  for  his  friends  would  be  ready  to  help 
him,  if  necessary,  with  arms.  Cosimo  was  cited  to  appear 
before  the  Balia,  which,  much  against  the  wishes  of  his 
friends,  he  did.  "  Many,"  says  Machiavelli,  *•  would  have 
him  banished,  many  executed,  and  many  were  silent,  either 
out  of  compassion  for  him  or  apprehension  of  other  people, 
so  that  nothing  was  concluded."  Cosimo,  however,  was  in 
the  meantime  a  prisoner  in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  in  the 
Alberghettino  tower  ^  in  the  custody  of  Federigo  Malavolti. 
He  could  hear  all  that  was  said,  and  the  clatter  of  arms  and 
the  tumult  made  him  fear  for  his  life,  and  especially  he  was 
afraid  of  assassination  or  poison,  so  that  for  four  days  he  ate 
nothing.  This  was  told  to  Federigo,  who,  according  to 
Machiavelli,  addressed  him  in  these  words :  "  You  are 
afraid  of  being  poisoned,  and  you  kill  yourself  with  hunger. 
You  have  but  small  esteem  of  me  to  believe  I  would  have 
a  hand  in  any  such  wickedness ;  I  do  not  think  your 
life  is  in  danger,  your  friends  are  too  numerous,  both 
within  the  Palace  and  without ;  if  there  be  any  such 
designs,  assure  yourself  they  must  take  new  measures,  I  will 
never  be  their  instrument,  nor  imbue  my  hands  in  the  blood 
of  any  man,  much  less  of  yours,  since  you  have  never  offended 
me.  Courage,  then,  feed  as  you  did  formerly,  and  keep 
yourself  alive  for  the  good  of  your  country  and  friends,  and 
'  The  Alberghettino  was  the  prison  in  the  great  tower. 


PALAZZO  RICCARDI  197 

that  you  may  eat  with  more  confidence,  I  myself  will  be 
your  taster." 

Now  Malavolti  one  night  brought  home  with  him  to  supper 
a  servant  of  the  Gonfaloniere's  called  Fargannaccio,  a  pleasant 
man  and  very  good  company.  Supper  over,  Cosimo,  who 
knew  Fargannaccio  of  old,  made  a  sign  to  Malavolti  that  he 
should  leave  them  together.  When  they  were  alone,  Cosimo 
gave  him  an  order  to  the  master  of  the  Ospedale  di  S.  Maria 
Nuova  for  1 1 00  ducats,  a  thousand  for  the  Gonfaloniere  and 
the  odd  hundred  for  himself.  On  receipt  of  this  sum  Bernardo 
became  more  moderate,  and  Cosimo  was  exiled  to  Padua. 
*'  Wherever  he  passed,"  says  Machiavelli,  "  he  was  honourably 
received,  visited  publicly  by  the  Venetians,  and  treated  by 
them  more  like  a  sovereign  than  a  prisoner."  Truly  the 
oligarchy  had  at  last  produced  a  despot. 

The  reception  of  Cosimo  abroad  seems  to  have  frightened 
the  Florentines,  for  within  a  year  a  Balla  was  chosen  friendly 
disposed  towards  him.  Upon  this  Rinaldo  and  his  friends 
took  arms  and  proceeded  to  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  the  Senate 
ordering  the  gates  to  be  closed  against  them ;  protesting  at 
the  same  time  that  they  had  no  thought  of  recalling  Cosimo. 
At  this  time  Eugenius  iv,  hunted  out  of  Rome  by  the  populace, 
was  living  at  the  convent  of  S.  Maria  Novella.  Perhaps  fearing 
the  tumult,  perhaps  bribed  or  persuaded  by  Cosimo's  friends, 
he  sent  Giovanni  Vitelleschi  to  desire  Rinaldo  to  speak  with 
him.  Rinaldo  agreed,  and  marched  with  all  his  company  to 
S.  Maria  Novella.  They  appear  to  have  remained  in  con- 
ference all  night,  and  at  dawn  Rinaldo  dismissed  his  men. 
What  passed  between  them  no  man  knows,  but  early  in 
October  1434  the  recall  of  Cosimo  was  decreed  and  Rinaldo 
with  his  son  went  into  exile.  Cosimo  was  received, 
Machiavelli  tells  us,  "  with  no  less  ostentation  and  triumph 
than  if  he  had  obtained  some  extraordinary  victory ;  so  great 
was  the  concourse  of  people,  and  so  high  the  demonstration 
of  their  joy,  that  by  an  unanimous  and  universal  concurrence 
he  was  saluted  as  the  Benefactor  of  the  people  and  the 
Father  of  his  country."     Thus  the  Medici  estjiblished  them- 


198    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

selves  in  Florence.  Practically  Prince  of  the  Commune, 
though  never  so  in  name,  Cosimo  set  himself  to  consolidate 
his  power  by  a  judicious  munificence  and  every  political 
contrivance  known  to  him.  Thus,  while  he  enriched  the 
city  with  such  buildings  as  his  palace  in  Via  Larga,  the 
Convent  of  S.  Marco,  the  Church  of  S.  Lorenzo,  he 
helped  Francesco  Sforza  to  establish  himself  as  tyrant  of 
Milan,  and  in  the  affairs  of  Florence  always  preferred  war  to 
peace,  because  he  knew  that,  beggared,  the  Florentines  must 
come  to  him.  Yet  it  was  in  his  day  that  Florence  became  the 
artistic  and  intellectual  capital  of  Italy.  Under  his  patronage 
and  enthusiasm  the  Renaissance  for  the  first  time  seems  to 
have  become  sure  of  itself.  The  humanists,  the  architects, 
the  sculptors,  the  painters  are,  as  it  were,  seized  with  a 
fury  of  creation ;  they  discover  new  forms,  and  express  them- 
selves completely,  with  beauty  and  truth.  For  a  moment 
realism  and  beauty  have  kissed  one  another :  for  reality  is 
not  enough,  as  Alberti  will  find  some  day,  it  is  necessary 
to  find  and  to  express  the  beauty  there  also.  It  was  an  age 
that  was  learning  to  enjoy  itself.  The  world  and  the  beauty 
of  the  world  laid  bare,  partly  by  the  study  of  the  ancients, 
partly  by  observation,  really  a  new  faculty  as  it  were,  were 
enough ;  that  conscious  paganism  which  later,  but  for  the 
great  disaster,  might  have  emancipated  the  world,  had  not 
yet  discovered  itself;  in  Cosimo's  day  art  was  still  an  expres- 
sion of  joy,  impetuous,  unsophisticated,  simple.  In  this  world 
of  brief  sunshine  Cosimo  appears  to  us  very  delightfully  as 
the  protector  of  the  arts,  the  sincere  lover  of  learning,  the 
companion  of  scholars.  To  him  in  some  sort  the  world  owes 
the  revival  of  the  Platonic  Philosophy,  for  the  Greek  Argyropolis 
lived  in  his  house,  and  taught  Piero  his  son  and  Lorenzo  his 
grandson  the  language  of  the  Gods.  When  Gemisthus  Pletho 
came  to  Florence,  Cosimo  made  one  of  his  audience,  and 
was  so  moved  by  his  eloquence  that  he  determined  to 
establish  a  Greek  academy  in  the  city  on  the  first  opportunity. 
He  was  the  dear  friend  of  Marsilio  Ficino,  and  he  founded 
the  Libraries  of  S.  Marco  and  of  the  Badia  at  Fiesole.     The 


PALAZZO  RICCARDI  199 

great  humanists  of  his  time,  Leonardo  Bruni,  Carlo  Marsuppini, 
Poggio,  and  Niccolb  de'  Niccoli  were  his  companions,  and 
in  his  palace  in  Via  Larga,  and  in  his  villas  at  Careggi  and 
Poggio  a  Caiano,  he  gathered  the  most  precious  treasures, 
rare  manuscripts,  and  books,  not  a  few  antique  marbles  and 
jewels,  coins  and  medals  and  statues,  while  he  filled  the 
courts  and  rooms,  built  and  decorated  by  the  greatest  artists 
of  his  time,  with  the  statues  of  Donatello,  the  pictures  of 
Paolo  Uccello,  Andrea  del  Castagno,  Fra  Filippo  Lippo,  and 
Benozzo  Gozzoli.  Cosimo,  says  Gibbon,  "  was  the  father  of  a 
line  of  princes  whose  name  and  age  are  almost  synonymous 
with  the  restoration  of  learning ;  his  credit  was  ennobled  with 
fame ;  his  riches  were  dedicated  to  the  service  of  mankind ; 
he  corresponded  at  once  with  Cairo  and  London,  and  a  cargo 
of  Indian  spices  and  Greek  books  were  often  imported  in  the 
same  vessel."  While  Burckhardt,  the  most  discerning  critic 
of  the  civilisation  of  the  Renaissance,  tells  us  that  *'  to  him 
belongs  the  special  glory  of  recognising  in  the  Platonic 
philosophy  the  fairest  flower  of  the  ancient  world  of  thought, 
and  of  inspiring  his  friends  with  the  same  belief." 

Among  those  who  had  loved  Cosimo  so  well  as  to  go 
with  him  into  exile,  had  been  Michelozzo  Michelozzi,  the 
architect  and  sculptor,  the  pupil  of  Donatello.  Already, 
Vasari  tells  us  in  1430,  Cosimo  had  caused  Michelozzo  to 
prepare  a  model  for  a  palace  at  the  corner  of  Via  Larga  beside 
S.  Giovannino,  for  one  already  made  by  Brunellesco  appeared 
to  him  too  sumptuous  and  magnificent,  and  quite  as  likely  to 
awaken  envy  among  his  fellow-citizens  as  to  contribute  to  the 
grandeur  and  ornament  of  the  city,  and  to  his  own  convenience. 
The  palace  which  we  see  to-day  at  the  corner  of  Via  Cavour 
and  Via  Gori  and  call  Palazzo  Riccardi,  was  perhaps  not 
begun  till  1444,  and  is  certainly  somewhat  changed  and 
enlarged  since  Michelozzo  built  it  for  Cosimo  Vecchio.  The 
windows  on  the  ground  floor,  for  instance,  were  added  by 
Michelangelo  and  the  Riccardi  family,  whose  name  it  now 
bears,  and  who  bought  it  in  1695  from  Ferdinando  11,  enlarged 
it  in  1715. 


200    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

In  1417,  Cosimo,  after  his  marriage  with  Contessina  de' 
Bardi,  had  bought  and  Michelozzo  had  rebuilt  for  him  the 
Villa  Careggi,  where,  in  the  Albizzi  conspiracy,  he  had  retired, 
he  said,  "to  escape  from  the  contests  and  divisions  in  the 
city."  It  was  here  that  he  lay  dying  when  he  wrote  to 
Marsilio  Ficino  to  come  to  him.  *'  Come  to  us,  Marsilio,  as 
soon  as  you  are  able.  Bring  with  you  your  translation  of 
Plato  De  Summo  Bono,  for  I  desire  nothing  so  much  as  to 
learn  the  road  to  the  greatest  happiness " :  and  there  too 
Lorenzo  his  grandson  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  when 
Savonarola  came  to  him  in  his  last  hours  and  bade  him  give 
back  liberty  to  Florence. 

It  is,  however,  the  palace  in  the  Via  Larga  that  recalls  to 
us  most  vividly  the  lives  and  times  of  these  first  Medici, 
Cosimo  Vecchio,  Piero  the  gouty,  Lorenzo  il  Magnifico. 
Michelozzo,  Vasari  tells  us,  deserves  infinite  credit  for  this 
building,  since  it  was  the  first  palace  built  in  Florence  after 
modem  rules  in  which  the  rooms  were  arranged  with  a  view 
to  convenience  and  beauty.  "The  cellars  are  excavated," 
he  explains,  "  to  more  than  half  their  depth  under  the  ground, 
having  four  braccia  beneath  the  earth,  that  is  with  three  above, 
on  account  of  the  lights.  There  are,  besides  buttresses,  store- 
rooms, etc.,  on  the  same  level.  In  the  first  or  ground  floor 
are  two  court-yards  with  magnificent  loggia,  on  which  open 
various  saloons,  bed-chambers,  ante-rooms,  writing-rooms, 
offices,  baths,  kitchens,  and  reservoirs,  with  staircases  both 
for  private  and  public  use,  all  most  conveniently  arranged. 
In  the  upper  floors  are  dwellings  and  apartments  for  a  family, 
with  all  those  conveniences  proper,  not  only  to  that  of  a 
private  citizen,  as  Cosimo  then  was,  but  sufficient  also  for  the 
most  powerful  and  magnificient  sovereign.  Accordingly,  in  our 
time,  kings,  emperors,  popes,  and  whatever  of  most  illustrious 
Europe  can  boast  in  the  way  of  princes,  have  been  most 
commodiously  lodged  in  this  palace,  to  the  infinite  credit  of 
the  magnificent  Cosimo,  as  well  as  that  of  Michelozzo's 
eminent  skill  in  architecture." 

It  is  not,  however,  the  splendour  of  the  palace,  fine  as  it  is, 


PALAZZO  RICCARDI  201 

or  the  memory  of  Cosimo  even,  that  brings  us  to  that  beautiful 
house  to-day,  but  the  work  of  Donatello  in  the  courtyard, 
those  marble  medallions  copied  from  eight  antique  gems,  and 
the  little  chapel  on  the  second  floor,  almost  an  afterthought 
you  might  think,  since  in  a  place  full  of  splendidly  propor- 
tioned rooms,  it  is  so  cramped  and  cornered  under  the  stair- 
case, where  Benozzo  Gozzoli  has  painted  in  fresco  quite  round 
the  walls,  the  Journey  of  the  Three  Kings,  in  which.  Cosimo 
himself,  Piero  his  son,  and  Lorenzo  his  grandson,  then  a 
golden-haired  youth,  ride  among  the  rest,  in  a  procession  that 
never  finds  the  manger  at  Bethlehem,  is  indeed  not  concerned 
with  it,  but  is  altogether  occupied  with  its  own  light-hearted 
splendour,  and  the  beauty  of  the  fair  morning  among  the 
Tuscan  hills.  Is  it  the  pilgrimage  of  the  Magi  to  the  lowly 
cot  of  Jesus  that  we  find  in  that  tiny  dark  chapel,  or  the 
journey  of  man,  awake  now  on  the  first  morning  of  spring 
in  quest  of  beauty?  Over  the  grass  scattered  with  flowers, 
that  gay  company  passes  at  dawn  by  little  white  towns  and 
grey  towers,  through  woods  where  for  a  moment  is  heard  the 
song  of  some  marvellous  bird,  past  running  streams,  between 
hedges  of  pomegranates  and  clusters  of  roses ;  and  by  the 
wayside  rise  the  stone-pine  and  the  cypress,  while  over  all  is 
the  far  blue  sky,  full  of  the  sun,  full  of  the  wind,  which  is 
so  soft  that  not  a  leaf  has  trembled  in  the  woods,  nor  the 
waters  stirred  in  a  single  ripple.  Truly  they  are  come  to 
Tuscany  where  Beauty  is,  and  are  far  from  Bethlehem,  where 
Love  lies  sleeping.  There  on  a  mule,  a  black  slave  beside 
his  stirrup,  rides  Cosimo  Pater  Patriae,  and  beside  him  come 
Piero  his  son,  attended  too,  and  before  them  on  a  white  horse 
stepping  proudly,  with  jewels  in  his  cap,  rides  the  golden- 
haired  Lorenzo,  the  youngest  of  the  three  kings,  already 
magnificent,  the  darling  of  this  world  of  hills  and  streams, 
which  one  day  he  will  sing  better  than  anyone  of  his  time. 
Not  thus  came  the  Magi  of  the  East  across  the  deserts  to 
stony  Judaea,  and  though  the  Emperor  of  the  East  be  one 
of  them,  and  the  Patriarch  of  Constantinople  another,  we 
know  it  is  to  the  knowledge  of  Plato  they  would  lead  us,  and 


202    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

not  to  the  Sedes  Sapientiae.  And  so  it  is  before  an  empty 
shrine  that  those  clouds  of  angels  sing ;  Madonna  has  fled 
away,  and  the  children  are  singing  a  new  song,  surely  the 
Trionfo  of  Lorenzo,  it  is  the  first  time,  perhaps,  that  we 
hear  it — 

Quant'  e'  bella  giovinezza 

Ah,  if  they  had  but  known  how  tragically  that  day  would 
close. 

As  Cosimo  lay  dying  at  Careggi,  often  closing  his  eyes, 
"to  use  them  to  it,"  as  he  told  his  wife,  who  wondered 
why  he  lay  thus  without  sleeping,  it  was  perhaps  some  vision 
of  that  conflict  which  he  saw  and  would  fain  have  dismissed 
from  his  mind,  already  divided  a  little  in  its  allegiance — who 
knows — between  the  love  of  Plato  and  the  love  of  Jesus. 
Piero,  his  son,  gouty  and  altogether  without  energy,  was 
content  to  confirm  his  political  position  and  to  overwhelm  the 
Pitti  conspiracy.  It  is  only  with  the  advent  of  Lorenzo  and 
Guiliano,  the  first  but  twenty-one  when  Piero  died,  that  the 
spirit  of  the  Renaissance,  free  for  the  first  time,  seems  to 
dance  through  every  byway  of  the  city,  and,  confronted  at  last 
by  the  fanatic  hatred  of  Savonarola,  to  laugh  in  his  face  and 
to  flee  away  through  Italy  into  the  world. 

Bom  in  1448,  Lorenzo  always  believed  that  he  owed  almost 
everything  that  was  valuable  in  his  life  to  his  mother  Lucrezia, 
of  the  noble  Florentine  house  of  Tomabuoni,  which  had 
abandoned  its  nobility  in  order  to  qualify  for  public  office. 
A  poetess  herself,  and  the  patron  of  poets,  she  remained  the 
best  counsellor  her  son  ever  had.  In  his  early  youth  she 
had  watched  over  his  religious  education,  and  in  his  grand- 
father's house  he  had  met  not  only  statesmen  and  bankers, 
but  artists  and  men  of  letters.  His  first  tutor  had  been 
Gentile  Becchi  of  Urbino,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Arezzo ;  from 
him  he  learned  Latin,  but  Argyropolus  and  Ficino  and 
Landino  taught  him  Greek,  and  read  Plato  and  Aristotle  with 
him.  Nor  was  this  all,  for  we  read  of  his  eagerness  for 
every  sort  of  exercise.     He  could  play  calcio  and  pallone,  and 


PALAZZO  RICCARDI  203 

his  own  poems  witness  his  love  of  hunting  and  of  country  life, 
and  he  ran  a  horse  often  enough  in  the  palii  of  Siena.  He 
was  more  than  common  tall,  with  broad  shoulders,  and  very 
active.  In  colour  dark,  though  he  was  not  handsome,  his 
face  had  a  sort  of  dignity  that  compelled  respect,  but  he  was 
shortsighted  too,  and  his  nose  was  rather  broad  and  flat. 
If  he  lacked  the  comeliness  of  outward  form,  he  loved  all 
beauteous  things,  and  was  in  many  ways  the  most  extra- 
ordinary man  of  his  age ;  his  verse,  for  instance,  has  just  that 
touch  of  genius  which  seems  to  be  wanting  in  the  most  of 
contemporary  poets.  His  love  for  Lucrezia  Donati,  in  whose 
honour  the  tournament  of  1467  was  popularly  supposed  to 
be  held,  though  in  reality  it  was  given  to  celebrate  his 
betrothal  with  Clarice  Orsini,  seems  to  have  been  merely  an 
affectation  in  the  manner  of  Petrarch,  so  fashionable  at  that 
time.  Certainly  the  Florentines,  for  that  day  at  least,  wished 
to  substitute  a  lady  of  their  city  for  the  Roman  beauty, 
and  Lorenzo  seems  to  have  agreed  with  them.  Like  the 
tournament  that  Guiliano  held  later  in  honour  of  Simonetta 
Vespucci,  which  Poliziano  has  immortalised,  and  for  which 
Botticelli  painted  a  banner,  this  pageant  of  Lorenzo's,  for  it 
was  rather  a  pageant  than  a  fight,  was  sung  by  Luca  Pulci, 
and  was  held  in  Piazza  S.  Croce.  A  rumour  of  the  splendour 
of  the  dresses,  the  beauty  and  enthusiasm  of  the  scene,  has 
come  down  to  us,  together  with  Lorenzo's  own  account  of 
the  day,  and  Clarice's  charming  letter  to  him  concerning 
it.  "To  follow  the  custom,"  he  writes  unenthusiastically  in 
his  memoir — "  to  follow  the  custom  and  do  as  others  do,  I 
gave  a  tournament  in  Piazza  S.  Croce  at  a  great  cost,  and 
with  a  considerable  magnificence;  it  seems  about  10,000 
ducats  were  spent.  Although  I  was  not  a  great  fighter,  nor 
even  a  very  strong  hitter,  I  won  the  prize,  a  helmet  of  inlaid 
silver,  with  a  figure  of  Mars  as  a  crest."  "  I  have  received 
your  letter,  in  which  you  tell  me  of  the  tournament  where  you 
won  the  prize,"  writes  Clarice,  "and  it  has  given  me  much 
pleasure.  I  am  glad  you  are  fortunate  in  what  pleases  you, 
and  that  my  prayers  are  heard,  for  I  have  no  other  wish  but 


204    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

to  see  you  happy.  Give  my  respects  to  my  father  Piero  and 
my  mother  Lucrezia,  and  all  who  are  near  to  you,  and  I  send, 
too,  my  respect  to  you.  I  have  nothing  else  to  say. — Yours, 
Clarice  de  Orsinis."  Poor  little  Clarice,  she  was  married  to 
Lorenzo  on  June  4,  in  the  following  year.  "  I,  Lorenzo,  took 
to  wife  Clarice,  daughter  of  Signor  Jacopo,  or  rather  she  was 
given  to  me."  He  writes  more  coldly,  certainly,  than  he  was 
used  to  do.  The  marriage  festa  was  celebrated  in  Palazzo 
Riccardi  with  great  magnificence.  Clarice,  who  was  tall, 
slender,  and  shapely,  with  long  delicate  hands  and  auburn 
hair,  but  without  great  beauty  of  feature,  dressed  in  white  and 
gold,  was  borne  on  horseback  through  the  garlanded  way,  in 
a  procession  of  girls  and  matrons,  trumpeters  and  pipers,  all 
Florence  following  after  to  the  Palace.  There  in  the  loggia 
above  the  garden  she  dined  with  the  newly-married  ladies  of 
the  city.  In  the  courtyard,  round  the  David  of  Donatello, 
some  seventy  of  the  greatest  among  the  citizens  sat  together, 
while  the  stewards  were  all  sons  of  the  grandi.  Piero  de* 
Medici  entertained  each  day  some  thousand  guests,  while 
for  their  entertainment  mimic  battles  were  fought,  and  in  the 
manner  of  the  time  wooden  forts  were  built,  defended,  and 
taken  by  assault,  and  at  night  there  were  dances  and  songs. 
Almost  immediately  after  the  marriage  Lorenzo  set  out  for 
Milan  to  visit  the  new  Duke,  and  stand  godfather  to  his 
heir.  All  his  way  through  Prato,  Pistoja,  Lucca,  Pietrasanta 
Sarzana,  Pontremoli  to  Milan  was  a  triumphal  progress.  He 
came  home  to  find  his  father  ailing,  and  on  2nd  December 
1469,  Piero  de  Medici  died.  He  was  buried  in  S.  Lorenzo, 
in  a  tomb  made  by  Verrocchio. 

It  was  to  a  great  extent  owing  to  the  prompt  action  of 
Tommaso  Soderini  that  the  power  of  the  Medici  did  not  pass 
away  at  Piero's  death,  as  that  of  many  another  family  had 
done  in  Florence.  The  tried  friend  of  that  house,  Soderini 
gathered  some  six  hundred  of  the  leading  citizens  in  the 
convent  of  S.  Antonio,  and,  as  it  seems,  with  the  help  of  the 
relatives  of  Luca  Pitti,  persuaded  them  that  the  fortunes  of 
Florence  were  wrapped  up  in  the  Medici.     "  The  second  day 


PALAZZO  RICCARDI  205 

after  my  father's  death,"  writes  Lorenzo  in  his  Memoir, 
"although  I,  Lorenzo,  was  very  young,  in  fact  only  in  my 
twenty-first  year,  the  leading  men  of  the  city  and  of  the 
ruling  party  came  to  our  house  to  express  their  sorrow  for 
our  misfortune,  and  to  persuade  me  to  take  upon  myself  the 
charge  of  the  government  of  the  city  as  my  grandfather  and 
father  had  already  done.  This  proposal  being  contrary  to 
the  instincts  of  my  age,  and  entailing  great  labour  and  danger, 
I  accepted  against  my  will,  and  only  for  the  sake  of  protecting 
my  friends  and  our  own  fortunes,  for  in  Florence  one  can  ill 
live  in  the  possession  of  wealth  without  control  of  the  govern- 
ment." Thus  Lorenzo  came  to  be  tyrant  of  Florence.  It 
was  a  rule  illegitimate  in  its  essence,  purchased  with  gold,  and 
without  any  outward  sign  of  oflfice.  That  it  would  come  to 
be  disputed  might  have  seemed  certain. 


XV 
FLORENCE 

SAN  MARCO  AND  SAVONAROLA 

FOR  there  was  another  spirit,  too,  moving  secretly  through 
the  ways  of  the  city,  among  the  crowds  that  gathered 
round  the  Cantastoria  of  the  Mercato  Vecchio,  or  mingled 
with  the  wild  procession  of  the  carnival,  a  spirit  not  of  life, 
but  of  denial,  a  little  forgetful  as  yet  that  the  days  of  the 
Middle  Age  were  over :  and  even  as  one  day  that  joy  in  the 
earth  and  the  beauty  of  world  was  to  pass  almost  into  Paganism, 
so  this  mysticism,  that  was  at  first  like  some  marvellous  fore- 
taste of  heaven,  fell  into  just  Puritanism,  a  brutal  political  and 
schismatic  hatred  in  the  fantaticism  of — let  us  be  thankful 
for  that — a  foreigner.  **  If  I  am  deceived,  Christ,  thou  hast 
deceived  me,"  Savonarola  will  come  to  say ;  and  amid  his 
cursing  and  prophecies  it  is  perhaps  difficult  to  catch  the 
words  of  Pico—"  We  may  rather  love  God  than  either  know 
Him  or  by  speech  utter  Him."  But  in  Cosimo's  day  men 
had  no  fear,  the  day  was  at  the  dawn  :  who  could  have  thought 
by  sunset  life  would  be  so  disastrous  ? 

Cosimo  de'  Medici  had  a  villa  near  the  convent  of  S. 
Domenico  at  Fiesole,  where,  as  it  is  said,  he  would  often  go 
when  Careggi  was  too  far,  and  the  summer  had  turned  the 
city  into  a  furnace.  Here,  as  we  may  think,  he  may  well  have 
talked  with  Fra  Angelico,  for  he  would  often  walk  in  the 
cloisters  in  the  evening  with  the  friars,  and  must  have  seen  and 
praised  the  frescoes  there.     These  Dominicans  at  Ficsolc  had 

already  sent  a  colony  to  Florence,  for  in  June  1435  they  had 

200 


CIIIOSIKO    PI    S.    MAKfO 


SAN  MARCO  207 

obtained  from  Pope  Eugenius  iv,  who  was  then  at  S.  Maria 
Novella,  the  little  church  of  S.  Giorgio  across  Arno.  Seeing 
the  order  and  comeliness  of  that  convent  at  Fiesole,  Cosimo, 
on  behalf  of  the  magistrates  of  Florence,  presented  a  petition 
to  the  Pope  about  this  time,  praying  that  since  he  was  engaged 
on  a  reform  of  the  Religious  Orders,  which,  partly  owing  to  the 
schism  and  partly  to  the  plague,  were  much  relaxed,  he  would 
suppress  the  Sylvestrians  who  dwelt  in  the  old  convent  of  S. 
Marco,  and  give  it  to  the  Dominicans  of  Fiesole,  who  in 
exchange  would  give  up  their  convent  of  S.  Giorgio,  for  in 
the  centre  of  the  city  numerous  and  zealous  ministers  were 
needed.  Eugenius  very  gladly  agreed  to  this,  and  in  a  Bull 
of  January  1436,  S.  Marco  was  given  to  the  Dominican 
Friars.*  So  they  came  down  from  Fiesole  in  procession,  and 
went  through  the  city  accompanied  by  three  bishops,  all  the 
clergy,  and  an  immense  concourse  of  people,  and  Fra  Cipriano 
took  possession  of  S.  Marco  "  in  the  name  of  his  congrega- 
tion." The  convent  at  this  time  would  seem  to  have  been 
in  a  deplorable  state  :  in  the  previous  year  a  fire  had  destroyed 
much  of  it,  and  the  church  even  was  without  a  roof,  so  that 
the  friars  were  obliged  to  build  themselves  wooden  cells  to  live 
in,  and  to  roof  the  church  with  timber.  When  Cosimo  heard 
this  he  prepared  at  once  to  rebuild  the  convent,  and  sent 
Michelozzo  to  see  what  could  be  done.  Michelozzo  first 
pulled  down  the  old  cloister,  leaving  only  the  church  and  the 
refectory;  and  in  1437  began  to  build  the  beiutiful  convent 
we  see  to-day,  completing  it  in  1443,  at  a  cost  of  36,000 
ducats.  The  church  which  was  then  restored  has  suffered 
many  violations  since,  and  is  very  different  to-day  from  what 
it  was  at  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  It  was  consecrated 
in  1442,  on  the  feast  of  the  Epiphany,  by  Pope  Eugenius  in 
the  presence  of  his  Cardinals.  The  library,  Vasari  tells  us, 
was  built  later.  It  was  vaulted  above  and  below,  and  had 
sixty-four  bookcases  of  cypress  wood  filled  with  most  valuable 

'  Not  without  protest,  for  the  Sylvestrians  appealed  to  the  schismatic 
counsel  at  Basle,  but  got  no  good  by  it ;  and  a  whole  series  of  lawsuits 
followed. 


2o8    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

books,  among  them  later  the  famous  collection  of  Niccolb 
Niccoli,  whose  debts  Cosimo  paid  on  condition  that  he  might 
dispose  freely  of  his  books,  which  were  arranged  here  by 
Thomas  of  Sarzana,  afterwards  Nicholas  v.  The  convent 
thus  completed  is  "  believed  to  be,"  says  Vasari,  "  the  most 
perfectly  arranged,  the  most  beautiful  and  most  convenient 
building  of  its  kind  that  can  be  found  in  Italy,  thanks  to  the 
skill  and  industry  of  Michelozzo." 

Fra  Angelico  was  nearly  fifty  years  old  when  his  order 
took  possession  of  S.  Marco.  Already  he  had  painted  three 
choir  books,  which  Cosimo  so  loved  that  he  wished  nothing 
else  to  be  used  in  the  convent,  for,  as  Vasari  tell  us,  their 
beauty  was  such  that  no  words  can  do  justice  to  it.  Bom  in 
1387,  he  had  entered  the  Order  of  S.  Dominic  in  1408 
at  Fiesole.  The  convent  into  which  he  had  come  had  only 
been  founded  in  1406,  and  as  with  S.  Marco  later,  so  with 
S.  Domenico,  many  disputes  as  to  the  property  had  to  be 
encountered,  so  that  he  had  early  been  a  traveller,  going  with 
the  brethren  to  Foligno  and  later  to  Cortona,  returning  to 
Fiesole  in  1418.  Who  amid  these  misfortunes  could  have 
been  his  master?  It  might  seem  that  in  the  silence  of  the 
sunny  cloister  in  the  long  summer  days  of  Umbria  some 
angel  passing  up  the  long  valleys  stayed  for  a  moment  beside 
him,  so  that  for  ever  after  he  cannot  forget  that  vision.  And 
then,  who  knows  what  awaits  even  us  too,  in  that  valley 
where  Blessed  Angela  heard  Christ  say,  "  I  love  thee  more 
than  any  other  woman  in  the  valley  of  Spoleto"?  It  is 
certainly  some  divinity  that  we  find  in  those  clouds  of  saints 
and  angels,  those  marvellously  sweet  Madonnas,  those 
majestic  and  touching  crucifixions,  that  with  a  simplicity  and 
sincerity  beyond  praise,  Angelico  has  left  up  and  down  Italy, 
and  not  least  in  the  convent  of  S.  Marco. 

Yes,  it  is  a  divine  world  he  has  dreamed  of,  peopled  by 
saints  and  martyrs,  where  the  flowers  are  quickly  woven  into 
crowns  and  the  light  streams  Jrom  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
and  every  breeze  whispers  the  sweet  sibilant  name  of  Jesus, 
and  there,  on  the  bare  but  beautiful  roads,  Christ  meets  His 


SAN  MARCO  209 

disciples,  or  at  the  convent  gate  welcomes  a  traveller,  and 
if  He  be  not  there  He  has  but  just  passed  by,  and  if  He  has 
not  just  passed  by  He  is  to  come.  It  is  for  Him  the  sun  is 
darkened ;  to  lighten  His  footsteps  the  moon  shall  rise ; 
because  His  love  has  lightened  the  world  men  go  happily, 
and  because  He  is  here  the  world  is  a  garden.  In  all  that 
convent  of  S.  Marco  you  cannot  turn  a  corner  but  Christ 
is  awaiting  you,  or  enter  a  room  but  His  smile  changes  your 
heart,  or  linger  on  the  threshold  but  He  bids  you  enter  in, 
or  eat  at  midday  but  you  see  Him  on  the  Cross,  and  hear, 
'•  Take,  eat ;  this  is  My  Body,  which  was  given  for  you." 

You  enter  the  cloister,  and  the  first  word  is  Silence ;  St. 
Peter  Martyr,  with  finger  on  lip,  seems  to  utter  the  first 
indispensable  word  of  the  heavenly  life.  The  second  you 
see  over  the  door  of  the  chapter-house.  Discipline  and  the 
denial  of  the  body ;  St.  Dominic  with  a  scourge  of  nine  cords 
is  about  to  give  you  the  difficult  book  of  heavenly  wisdom. 
The  third  is  spoken  by  Christ  Himself;  Faith,  for  He  points 
to  the  wound  in  His  side.  And  the  fourth  Christ  speaks  too, 
for  none  other  may  utter  it;  Love,  for  as  a  pilgrim  He  is 
welcomed  by  two  pilgrims,  two  Dominican  brothers,  to  their 
home.  Pass  into  the  Refectory  and  He  is  there ;  go  into 
the  Capitolo  and  He  is  there  also,  the  Prince  of  life  between 
two  malefactors,  hanging  on  a  cross  for  love  of  the  world, 
and  in  His  face  all  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  the  earth 
have  been  gathered  and  purged  of  their  dross,  and  between  His 
arms  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.  In  that  room  the  name 
of  Jesus  continually  vibrates  with  an  intense  and  passionate 
life,  more  wonderful,  more  beautiful,  and  more  terrible  than 
the  tremor  of  all  the  sea.  And  it  has  brought  together  in 
adoration  not  the  world,  which  cannot  hear  its  music,  but 
those  who  above  the  tumult  of  their  hearts  have  caught  some 
faint  far  echo  of  that  supernal  concord  which  has  bound 
together  this  whispering  universe  :  for  there  beneath  the  Cross 
of  Jesus  are  none  but  saints,  Madonna  and  the  two  SS. 
Maries,  St.  John  the  Baptist  and  St.  John  the  Divine,  and 
beside  them  kneel  the  founders  of  the  Religious  Orders,  St. 
14 


210    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Dominic,  the  founder  of  the  preaching  friars,  St  Jerome  the 
father  of  monasticism,  St.  Francis  the  little  poor  man,  St. 
Bernard  who  spoke  with  Madonna,  S.  Giovanni  Gualberto  the 
founder  of  Vallombrosa,  St.  Peter  Martyr  who  was  wounded 
for  Christ's  sake.  Above  him  stands  St.  Thomas  Aquinas 
the  angelic  doctor,  St.  Romuald  the  founder  of  Camaldoli, 
St  Benedict  who  overthrew  the  temples,  St.  Augustine  who 
has  spoken  of  the  City  of  God,  S.  Alberto  di  Vercelli  the 
founder  of  the  Carmelites.  And  on  the  other  side,  beside 
St.  John  Baptist,  St.  Mark  the  patron  of  the  convent  kneels 
with  his  open  Gospel,  St  Laurence  stands  with  his  gridiron, 
and  behind  him  come  the  two  other  Medici  saints,  S.  Cosmo 
and  S.  Damiano. 

Pass  into  the  dormitories,  and  in  every  cell  you  enter 
Jesus  is  there  before  you;  on  the  threshold  the  angel 
announces  His  advent,  and  little  by  little,  scene  by  scene, 
you  are  involved  in  the  beauty  and  the  tragedy  of  His  life. 
You  see  Him  transfigured  (No.  6),  you  see  Him  bufFeted 
(No.  7),  you  see  Him  rise  from  the  tomb  (No.  8),  and  you 
see  Him  in  glory  crowning  Madonna  (No.  9),  or  as  a  youth 
presented  in  the  Temple  (No.  11).  Many  times  you  come 
upon  Him  crucified  (15-23),  once  John  baptizes  Him  in 
Jordan  (24),  or  Madonna  and  St  John  the  Divine  weep 
over  Him  dead  (26).  Here  He  bears  His  Cross  (28),  there 
descends  into  Hades  (31),  preaches  to  the  people  (32),  is 
betrayed  by  Judas  (33),  agonises  in  the  Garden  (34),  gives 
us  His  Body  to  eat.  His  Blood  to  drink  (35),  is  nailed  to  the 
Cross  (36);  crucified  (37),  and  again  adored  as  a  Child  by 
the  Magi  (38),  speaks  with  Mary  in  the  garden  (i),  is  buried 
(2) ;  the  angel  announces  His  birth  (3),  He  is  crucified  (4), 
and  born  in  Bethlehem  (5).  It  is  the  rosary  of  Jesus  that 
we  tell,  consisting  of  the  glorious  and  sorrowful  mysteries 
of  His  life  and  death.  It  is  the  spirit  of  Christianity  that 
we  see  here,  blossoming  everywhere,  haphazard  like  the  wild 
flowers  that  are  the  armies  of  spring.  As  Benozzo  Gozzoli 
has  expressed  with  an  immense  good  fortune,  the  very  spirit 
of  the  Renaissance  at  its  birth  almost,  the  spirit  and  the 


SAN  MARCO  211 

joy  of  youth,  so  Angelico  with  as  simple  an  eagerness  and 
a  more  sure  sincerity  has  expressed  here  the  very  spirit  of 
Christianity, — He  that  loseth  his  life  shall  gain  it :  take  no 
thought  for  your  life. 

It  was  here,  then,  amid  all  this  mystical  and  heavenly  beauty, 
that  first  S.  Antonino  and  later  Savonarola  sought  to  oppose 
the  "new  religion  of  love  and  beauty"  which  had  already 
filled  Florence  with  a  new  joy.  At  first,  certainly,  that  new 
joy  seemed  not  unfriendly  to  the  mysterious  and  heavenly 
beauty  of  the  Christian  ideal.  It  is  not  till  later,  when  both 
have  been  a  little  spoiled  by  love,  that  there  seems  to  have 
been  any  antagonism  between  them.  It  is  true  that  it  was 
only  with  reluctance  that  S.  Antonino  accepted  the  Arch- 
bishopric of  Florence,  but  this  seems  rather  to  have  been 
owing  to  humility,  the  most  beautiful  characteristic  of  a 
beautiful  nature,  than  to  any  perception  that  he  might 
have  to  oppose  that  new  spirit  fostered  so  carefully,  and 
indeed  so  unwittingly,  by  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  his  benefactor. 
Born  of  Florentine  parents  in  1389,  the  son  of  a  notary, 
Antonino,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  had  entered  the  convent 
of  S.  Domenico  at  Fiesole,  not  without  a  severe  test  of  his 
steadfastness,  for  Fra  Domenico  made  him  learn  the  whole 
of  Gratian's  decree  by  heart  before  he  would  admit  him 
to  the  Order.  Later,  he  became  priest,  wrote  his  Summa 
Theologies,  and  was  called  by  Eugenius,  who  loved  him,  to 
the  General  Council  in  Florence  in  1439  ;  while  there  he  was 
made  Prior  of  the  Convent  of  S.  Marco.  Having  set  his 
Congregation  in  order,  and,  as  such  a  man  was  bound  to  do, 
endeared  himself  to  the  Florentines,  he  set  out  for  other  con- 
vents, not  in  Tuscany  only,  but  in  Naples,  which  needed  his 
presence.  He  was  absent  for  two  years.  During  that  time 
the  See  of  Florence  became  vacant,  and  Eugenius,  to  the  great 
joy  of  the  city,  appointed  Antonino  Archbishop.  Surprised 
and  troubled  that  he  should  have  been  thought  of  for  such  a 
dignity,  he  set  out  to  hide  himself  in  Sardinia,  but,  being 
prevented,  came  at  last  to  Siena,  whence  he  wrote  to  the  Pope 
begging  him  to  change  his  mind,  saying  that  he  was  old,  sick, 


312    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

and  unworthy.  How  little  he  knew  Eugenius,  the  one 
altogether  inflexible  will  in  all  that  time,  so  full  of  trouble  for 
the  Church  !  The  Pope  sent  him  to  S.  Domenico  at  Fiesole, 
and  told  the  Florentines  their  Archbishop  was  at  their  gates. 
So,  with  Cosimo  de'  Medici  at  their  head,  they  went  out  to 
meet  him,  but  he  refused  to  enter  the  city  till  Eugenius 
threatened  him  with  excommunication.  He  was  consecrated 
Archbishop  of  Florence  in  March  1446  borne  in  procession 
from  S.  Piero  down  Borgo  degli  Albizzi  to  the  Duomo.^  As 
a  boy,  it  is  said,  he  would  pray  before  the  Madonna  of  Or  San 
Michele,  and,  indeed,  in  his  Chronicle  he  defends  his  Order 
against  the  charges  of  scepticism  as  to  the  miracles  worked 
there,  with  a  certain  eloquence.  Many  are  the  stories  told  of 
him,  and  Pocetti  has  painted  the  stor)'  of  his  life  round  the 
first  cloister  of  S.  Marco,  where  he  was  buried  in  May  1459. 
S.  Antonino  was  a  saint  and  a  theologian,  not  a  politician  or 
an  historian.  Certainly  he  did  not  foresee  the  tragedy  that  was 
already  opening,  and  that  was  to  end,  not  in  the  lenten  fires 
of  Piazza  Signoria,  nor  even  in  the  death  of  Savonarola,  but 
in  the  siege  of  Florence,  the  establishment  of  the  House  of 
Medici,  the  tombs  of  S.  Lorenzo.  How  often  in  those  days 
Cosimo  would  walk  with  him  and  Fra  Angelico  in  the  cloisters 
on  a  summer  night,  after  listening  may  be  to  Marsilio  Ficino 
or  to  the  vague  and  wonderful  promises  of  Argyropolis.  "  To 
serve  God  is  to  reign,"  Antonino  told  him,  not  without  a 
certain  understanding  of  those  restless  ambitions  which  then 
seemed  to  promise  the  city  nothing  but  good.  And  then,  was 
it  not  Cosimo  who  had  rebuilt  the  convent,  was  it  not  Cosimo 
who  had  built  S.  Lorenzo  and  S.  Spirito  too,  by  the  hand  of 
Michelozzo  ? 

Antonino  was  not  a  politician ;  the  Chronkon  Domini 
Antonini  Archiprcesulis  Florentini  is  the  work  rather  of  a 
theologian  than  of  an  historian :  the  friend  of  Leonardo 
Bruni,  or  at  least  well  acquainted  with  his  work,  he  cared 
rather  for  charity  than  for  learning  \  and  it  was  as  the  father  of 
the  poor  that  Florence  loved  him.  He  lived  by  love.  And 
'  See  p.  256. 


SAN  MARCO  213 

in  those  days  of  uncertain  fortune,  amid  the  swift  political 
changes  of  the  time,  there  were  many  whom,  doubtless,  he 
saved  from  degradation  or  suicide.  I  poveri  vergognosi — the 
poor  who  are  ashamed,  it  was  these  he  first  took  under  his 
protection.  We  read  of  him  sending  for  twelve  men  of  all 
classes  and  various  crafts,  and,  laying  the  case  before  them, 
founded  a  charity — Proweditori  dei  poveri  vergognosi^  which 
soon  became  in  the  mouth  of  Florence  I  Buonomini  di  S. 
Martino,  the  good  men  of  S.  Martin,  for  the  society  had  its 
headquarters  in  the  Church  S.  Martino;  and,  was  not  S. 
Martino  himself,  as  it  were,  the  first  of  this  company  ? 

Born  in  Ferrara  in  1452,  the  grandson  of  a  famous  doctor  of 
Padua,  Girolamo  Savonarola  had  entered  the  Dominican  Order 
at  Bologna  when  he  was  twenty-two  years  old,  finding  the 
world  but  a  wretched  place,  and  the  wickedness  of  men  more 
than  he  could  bear.  Something  of  this  strange  and  almost 
passionate  pessimism  remained  with  him  his  whole  life  long. 
In  1 48 1  he  had  been  sent  to  the  convent  of  S.  Marco,  in 
Florence,  where  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  had  been  at  the  head  of 
affairs  for  some  twelve  years.  The  Pazzi  conspiracy,  in  which 
Giuliano  de'  Medici  lost  his  life,  had  come  in  1478,  and 
Lorenzo  was  fixed  more  firmly  than  ever  in  the  affections  of 
the  people.  Simonetta  had  been  borne  like  a  dead  goddess 
through  the  streets  of  the  city  to  burial ;  Lorenzo  was  already 
busy  with  those  carnival  songs  which,  as  some  thought,  were 
written  to  corrupt  the  people :  the  Renaissance  had  come, 
*'  Gladius  Domini  super  terram  cite  et  velociter,"  thought 
Savonarola,  unable  to  understand  that  life  from  which  he  had 
fled  into  the  cloister.  It  was  the  first  voice  that  had  been 
raised  against  the  resurrection  of  the  Gods,  but  at  that  moment 
Martin  Luther  was  lying  in  his  mother's  arms,  while  his  father 
worked  in  the  mines  at  Eisleben  :  the  reaction  was  already  born. 

On  a  Latin  city  such  as  Florence  was,  Savonarola  at  first 
made  little  or  no  impression ;  too  often  the  friars  had 
prophesied  evil  for  no  cause,  wandering  through  every  Httle 
city  in  Italy  denouncing  the  Signori :  it  was  in  San  Gemignano, 
even  to-day  the  most  mediaeval  of  Tuscan  cities,  a  place  of 


214    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

towers  and  winding  narrow  ways,  that  Savonarola  first  won 
a  hearing;  and  so  it  was  not  till  nine  years  after  his  first 
coming  to  her  that  Florence  seems  to  have  listened  to  his 
prophecy,  when,  in  August  1490,  in  S.  Marco  he  began  to 
preach  on  the  Revelation  of  St.  John  the  Divine.  It  was  a 
programme  half  political,  half  spiritual,  that  he  suggested  to 
those  who  heard  him,  the  reformation  of  the  Church  and  the 
fear  of  a  God  who  had  been  forgotten  but  who  would  not 
forget.  In  the  spring  of  the  year  following,  so  great  were  the 
crowds  who  flocked  to  hear  his  half-political  discourses  that 
he  had  to  preach  in  the  Duomo.  There  unmistakably  we  are 
face  to  face  with  a  political  agitator.  "  God  intends  to  punish 
Lorenzo  Magnifico, — yes,  and  his  friends  too " ;  and  when, 
a  little  later,  he  was  made  prior  of  S.  Marco,  he  refused  to 
receive  Lorenzo  in  the  house  his  grandfather  had  built.  In 
the  following  year  Lorenzo  died  ;  Savonarola,  as  the  tale  goes, 
refusing  him  absolution  unless  he  would  restore  liberty  to  the 
people  of  Florence.  Consider  the  position.  How  could 
Lorenzo  restore  that  which  he  had  never  stolen  away,  that 
which  had,  in  truth,  never  had  any  real  existence  ?  He  was 
without  office,  without  any  technical  right  to  government, 
merely  the  first  among  the  citizens  of  what,  in  name  at  least, 
was  a  Republic.  If  he  was  a  tyrant,  he  ruled  by  the  will  of 
the  people,  not  by  divine  right,  a  thing  unknown  among  the 
Signori  of  Italy,  nor  by  the  will  of  the  Pope,  nor  by  the  will 
of  the  Emperor,  but  by  the  will  of  Florence.  Yet  Savonarola, 
the  Ferrarese,  whether  or  no  he  refused  him  absolution,  did 
not  hesitate  to  denounce  him,  with  a  wild  flood  of  eloquence 
and  fanatic  prophecy  worthy  of  the  eleventh  century.  "  Leave 
the  future  alone,"  Lorenzo  had  counselled  him  kindly  enough  : 
it  was  just  that  he  could  not  do,  since  for  him  the  present  was 
too  disastrous.  And  the  future? — the  future  was  big  with 
Charles  viii  and  his  carnival  army,  gay  with  prostitutes,  bright 
with  favours,  and  behind  him  loomed  the  fires  of  Piazza  della 
Signoria. 

The  peace  of  Italy  is  dead,  the  Pope  told  his  Cardinals 
when  in  the  spring  of  1492  Lorenzo  passed  away  at  Carcggi. 


SAN  MARCO  215 

It  was  trae.  In  September  1494,  Charles  viii,  on  his  way 
to  Naples,  came  into  Italy,  was  received  by  Ludovico  of 
Milan  at  Asti,  while  his  Switzers  sacked  Rapallo.  Was  this, 
then,  the  saviour  of  Savonarola's  dreams  ?  "  It  is  the  Lord 
who  is  leading  those  armies,"  was  the  friar's  announcement 
Amid  all  the  horror  that  followed,  it  is  not  Savonarola  that 
we  see  to-day  as  the  hero  of  a  situation  he  had  himself  helped 
to  create,  but  Piero  Capponi,  who,  Piero  de'  Medici  having 
surrendered  Pietrasanta  and  Sarzana,  stood  for  the  Republic 
On  9th  November  Piero  and  Giuliano  his  brother  fled  out  of 
Porta  di  S.  Gallo,  while  Savonarola  with  other  ambassadors 
went  to  meet  the  King.  A  few  days  later,  on  17th  November 
1494,  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Pisa  in  the  mean- 
time having  revolted,  Charles  entered  Florence  ^  with  Cardinal 
delia  Rovere,  the  soldier  and  future  Pope,  and  in  his  train 
came  the  splendour  and  chivalry  of  France,  the  Scotch  bow- 
men, the  Gascons,  and  the  Swiss.  "  Viva  la  Francia  ! "  cried  the 
people,  and  Charles  entered  the  Duomo  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  between  a  lane  of  torches  to  the  high  altar.  And 
coming  out  he  was  conducted  to  the  house  of  Piero  de' 
Medici,  the  people  crying  still  all  the  time  **  Viva  la  Francia  ! " 
The  days  passed  in  feasting  and  splendour,  Charles  began  to 
talk  of  restoring  the  Medici,  nor  were  riots  infrequent  in 
Borgo  Ognissanti;  in  Borgo  S.  Frediano  the  Switzers  and 
French  pillaged  and  massacred,  and  were  slain  too  in  return. 
Florence,  always  ready  for  street  fighting,  was,  as  we  may  think, 
too  much  for  the  barbarians.  On  24th  November  the  treaty 
was  signed,  an  indemnity  being  paid  by  the  city,  but  the 
rioting  did  not  cease.  Landucci  gives  a  very  vivid  account  of 
it,  nor  was  the  King  himself  slow  to  pillage :  he  was  not 
content  with  the  indemnity  offered,  and  threatened  to  loot  the 
city.  *'Io  farb  dare  nelle  trombe,"  said  he;  Piero  Capponi 
was  not  slow  to  answer,  "  E  noi  faremo  dare  nelle  campane  " — 
and  we  will  sound  our  bells.  The  King  gave  in,  and  Florence 
was  saved.  On  26th  November  he  heard  Mass  for  the  last 
time  in  S.  Maria  del  Fiore,  and  on  the  28th  he  departed — si 
*  Cf.  L.  Landucci,  Diario  Fiorentino  (Sanson!,  1883),  p.  So. 


2i6    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

part\  el  Re  da  Firenze  dopo  desinare,  e  andb  al  albergo  alia 
Certosa  e  tutta  sua  gente  gli  and6  dietro  e  innanzi,  che  poco 
ce  ne  rimase,  says  Landucci  thankfully. 

Then  the  city,  free  from  this  rascal,  who  carried  off  what  he 
could  of  the  treasures  of  Cosimo  and  Lorenzo,  turned  not  to 
Piero  Capponi  but  to  another  foreigner,  Girolamo  Savonarola. 
The  political  eagerness  of  this  friar  now  came  to  the  point  of 
action.  He  set  up  a  Greater  Council,  which  in  its  turn  elected 
a  Council  of  Eighty ;  he  refused  to  call  a  parliament,  since  he 
told  them  that  "  parliament  had  ever  stolen  the  sovereignty 
from  the  people."  Then,  on  the  ist  of  April,  he  said  that  the 
Virgin  Mary  had  revealed  to  him  that  the  city  would  be  more 
glorious,  rich,  and  powerful  than  ever  before,  and,  as 
Landucci  says,  "  La  maggiore  parte  del  popolo  gli  credeva." 
He  also  said  that  the  Greater  Council  was  the  creation  of  God, 
and  that  whoever  should  attempt  to  change  it  would  be 
eternally  damned.  Nor  was  this  all.  If  it  were  right  and 
splendid  for  Florence  to  be  free,  free  as  she  always  had 
been  from  the  domination  of  any  other  city,  so  it  was  for 
revolted  Pisa.  Yet  this  fanatic  Ferrarese  told  the  people 
that  he  had  had  a  vision  in  which  the  Blessed  Virgin  had  told 
him  that  Florence  should  make  treaty  with  France,  and  thus 
regain  Pisa.  This  was  on  the  return  of  the  King  from  Naples 
with  Piero  de'  Medici  in  his  train.  However,  he  met  the  King 
at  Poggibonsi,  told  him  Florence  was  his  friend,  that  God 
desired  him  to  spare  it,  and  with  other  tales  succeeded  in 
keeping  Charles  out  of  the  city.  This,  as  it  seems  to  me,  is 
the  one  good  deed  Savonarola  did  for  Florence. 

But  the  people  still  believed  in  him,  though  he  turned  the 
whole  life  of  the  city  into  a  sort  of  religious  carnival.  Now,  if 
Lorenzo  had  kept  the  people  quiet  with  songs,  Savonarola  was 
equally  successful  with  hymns.  "Viva  Cristo  e  la  Virgine 
Maria,  nostra  regina,"  shouted  the  people, — merchants,  friars, 
women,  and  children  dancing  before  the  crucifix  with  olive 
boughs  in  their  hands.  "On  27th  March  1496,  which  was 
Palm  Sunday,  Fra  Girolamo  made  a  procession  of  children 
with  olive  branches  in  their  hands  and  crowns  of  olive  on  their 


SAN  MARCO  217 

heads,  and  all  bore,  too,  a  red  cross.  There  were  some  five 
thousand  boys,  and  a  great  number  of  girls  all  dressed  in 
white,  then  after  came  all  the  Ufici,  and  all  the  guilds,  and 
then  all  the  men,  and  after  all  the  women  of  the  city.  There 
never  was  so  great  a  procession,"  says  Landucci.  Indeed, 
there  was  not  a  man  nor  a  woman  who  did  not  join  the 
company.  "  It  was  a  holy  time,  but  it  was  short,"  says 
Landucci  again,  whose  own  children  were  among  "  these  holy 
and  blessed  companies." 

Short  indeed  !  The  Italian  League  had  been  formed  against 
France ;  only  Florence  and  Ferrara  remained  outside.  If  it 
were  politics  that  had  taken  Savonarola  so  high,  it  was  to 
them  he  owed  his  fall.  He  denounced  all  Italy,  and  not  least 
Alexander  vi,  the  vicious  but  very  capable  Pope.  When  he 
began  to  denounce  Rome  he  signed  his  own  death ;  her 
hour  was  not  yet  come.  "  I  announce  to  you,  Italy  and  Rome, 
the  Lord  will  come  out  of  His  place.  ...  I  tell  you,  Italy  and 
Rome,  the  Lord  will  tread  you  down.  I  have  commanded 
penance,  yet  you  are  worse  and  worse.  .  .  .  Soon  all  priests, 
friars,  bishops,  cardinals,  and  great  masters  shall  be  trampled 
down."  It  was  a  brave  denunciation,  and  if  it  were  unjust, 
what  was  justice  to  one  who  had  made  Jesus  King  of  Florence 
and  established  himself  as  His  Vicegerent. 

The  Pope  excommunicated  him  :  the  factions  in  Florence — 
the  Arrabbiati,  the  Compagnacci,  the  Palleschi — rejoiced  ;  yet 
the  people  he  had  led  so  long  seemed  inclined  to  support  him. 
Then  came  the  plague,  and  then  the  discovery  of  a  plot  to 
bring  back  Piero.  Well,  Savonarola  began  to  preach  again ; 
but  he  was  beaten.  Many  would  not  go  to  hear  him,  of 
whom  Landucci  was  one,  because  of  the  excommunication.^ 
And  at  last  Savonarola  himself  seems  to  have  seen  the  end. 
"  If  I  am  deceived,  Christ  Thou  hast  deceived  me,"  he  says,  and 
at  last  he  challenged  the  fire  to  prove  it.     It  was  too  much 

^  It  would  be  wrong  to  conclude  that  Savonarola  attacked  the  faith 
of  the  Catholic  Church.  lie  never  did.  He  protested  himself  a  faithful 
Catholic  to  the  last.  He  was  a  puritan  and  a  politician,  and  it  was  on 
these  two  counts  that  he  fought  the  I'apacy. 


21 8    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

for  the  Signoria ;  they  agreed.  It  was  the  Franciscans  he  had 
to  meet ;  whether  or  no  they  meant  to  persist  with  the 
"trial  by  fire"  we  shall  never  know,  but  when,  on  7th  April 
1498,  the  fire  was  lighted  in  Piazza  della  Signoria,  it 
was  Savonarola  who  refused.  A  few  minutes  later,  amid  the 
uproar,  a  deluge  of  rain  put  out  the  flames.  Savonarola's  last 
chance  was  gone.  The  people  hounded  him  back  to  S. 
Marco,  and  but  for  the  Guards  of  the  Signoria  he  would  have 
been  torn  in  pieces.  On  8th  April,  which  was  Palm  Sunday, 
in  the  evening,  the  attack  that  had  been  threatening  all  day 
began :  through  the  church,  through  the  cloisters  the  fight 
raged,  while  the  whole  city  was  in  the  streets ;  at  last 
Savonarola  and  Fra  Domenico,  his  friend,  gave  themselves 
up  to  the  guard,  really  for  protection,  and  were  lodged  in 
Palazzo  Vecchio.  There  the  Signoria  tortured  them,  with 
another  friar,  Silvestro,  and  at  last  from  Savonarola  even  they 
seem  to  have  dragged  some  sort  of  admission.  What  such  a 
confession  was  worth,  drawn  from  the  poor  mangled  body  of 
a  broken  man,  one  can  well  imagine ;  but  that  mattered 
nothing  to  the  wild  beasts  he  had  taught  to  roar,  who  now  had 
him  at  their  mercy.  The  effect  of  this  on  the  city  seems  to 
have  been  very  great.  '*  We  had  thought  him  to  be  a  prophet," 
writes  Luca  Landucci  simply,  *'  and  he  confessed  he  was  not  a 
prophet,  that  he  had  not  from  God  the  things  he  preached. 
.  .  .  And  I  was  by  when  this  was  read,  and  I  was  astonished, 
bewildered,  amazed.  .  .  .  Ah,  I  expected  Florence  to  be,  as  it 
were,  a  New  Jerusalem,  .  .  .  and  I  heard  the  very  contrary." 
The  Signoria  which  tortured  Savonarola  was  presently 
replaced  by  another ;  and  though,  like  its  predecessor,  it  too 
refused  to  send  him  to  Rome,  it  went  about  to  compass  his 
death.  Again  they  tortured  him;  then  on  the  23rd  May,  the 
gallows  having  been  built  over  night  in  the  Piazza,  they  killed 
him  with  his  companions,  afterwards  burning  their  bodies, 
"  They  wish  to  crucify  them,"  ^  cried  one  in  the  crowd ;  and 
indeed,  the  scaffold  seems  to  have  resembled  a  cross.  Was 
it  Florence  herself  perhaps  who  hung  there  ? 
'  Landucci,  op,  cit.  p.  1 76. 


XVI 
FLORENCE 

S.  MARIA  NOVELLA 

IF  Florence  built  the  Baptistery,  the  Duomo,  and  the 
Campanile  for  the  glory  of  the  whole  city,  that  there 
might  be  one  place,  in  spite  of  all  the  factions,  where  with- 
out difference  all  might  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  one 
temple  in  which  all  the  city  might  wait  till  Jesus  passed  by, 
one  tower  which  should  announce  the  universal  Angelus,  she 
built  other  churches  too,  more  particular  in  their  usefulness, 
less  splendid  in  their  beauty,  but  not  less  necessary  in  their 
hold  on  the  life  of  the  city,  or  their  appeal  to  us  to-day. 
You  may  traverse  the  city  from  east  to  west  without  for- 
saking the  old  streets,  and  a  little  fantastically,  perhaps,  find 
some  hint  in  the  buildings  you  pass  of  that  old  far-away  life, 
so  restless  and  so  fragile,  so  wanting  in  unity,  and  yet,  as  it 
seems  to  us,  with  but  one  really  profound  intention  in  all  its 
work,  the  resurrection  of  life  among  men.  In  the  desolate 
but  beautiful  Piazza  of  S.  Maria  Novella,  at  the  gates  of  the 
old  city,  you  find  a  Dominican  convent,  and  before  it  the  great 
church  of  that  Order,  S.  Maria  Novella  herself,  the  bride  of 
Michelangelo ;  then,  following  Via  dei  Fossi,  you  enter  the 
old  city  at  the  foot  of  the  Carraja  bridge,  following  Via  di 
Parione  past  an  old  Medici  palace  into  Via  Porta  Rossa  and 
so  into  Via  Calzaioli,  where  you  came  upon  that  strange  and 
beautiful  church  so  like  a  palace,  Or  San  Michele,  built  by  the 
merchants,  the  Church  of  the  Guilds  of  the  city.  Passing 
thence  into  Piazza  Signoria,  and  so  into  Via  de'  Gondi,  in  the 

2X9 


220    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Proconsolo  you  find  the  Church  of  the  great  monastic  Order, 
the  Badia  of  the  Benedictines,  having  passed  on  your  way 
Palazza  Vecchio,  the  Palace  of  the  Republic,  afterwards  of  the 
Medici  and  the  Bargello,  the  Palace  of  the  Podesth.,  afterwards 
a  prison,  coming  later  through  Borgo  dei  Greci  to  the  Church 
of  S.  Croce,  the  convent  of  the  Franciscans.  Thus,  while 
beyond  the  old  west  gate  of  the  city  there  stood  the  house  of 
the  Dominicans,  the  Franciscans  built  their  convent  on  the 
east,  just  without  the  city ;  and  between  them  in  the  heart  of 
Florence  dwelt  the  oldest  Order  of  all,  the  Benedictines,  busy 
with  manuscripts.  Again,  if  the  tower  of  authority  throws 
its  shadow  over  the  Bargello,  it  is  the  tower  of  liberty  that 
rises  over  Palazzo  Vecchio,  and  the  whole  tragedy  of  the 
beautiful  city  seems  to  be  expressed  for  us  in  the  fact  that 
while  the  one  became  a  prison  the  other  came  to  house  the 
gaoler. 

So  this  city  of  warm  brick,  with  its  churches  of  marble,  its 
old  ways,  its  palaces  of  stone,  its  convents  at  the  gates,  comes 
to  hold  for  us,  as  it  were,  the  very  dream  of  Italy,  the  dream 
that  was  too  good  to  last,  that  was  so  soon  to  be  shattered  by 
the  barbarian.  Yet  in  that  little  walk  through  the  narrow 
winding  ways  from  the  west  to  the  east  of  the  city,  all  the 
eloquence  and  renown,  the  strength  and  beauty  of  Italy 
seem  to  be  gathered  for  you,  as  in  a  nosegay  you  may  find 
all  the  beauty  of  a  garden.  And  of  all  the  broken  blossoms 
that  you  may  find  by  the  way,  not  one  is  more  fragrant 
and  fair  than  the  sweet  bride  of  Michelangelo,  S.  Maria 
Novella. 

Standing  in  a  beautiful  Piazza,  itself  the  loveliest  thing 
therein,  dressed  in  the  old  black  and  white  habit,  it  dreams 
of  the  past :  it  is  full  of  memories  too,  for  here  Boccaccio  one 
Tuesday  morning,  just  after  Mass  in  1348,  amid  the  desola- 
tion of  the  city,  found  the  seven  beloved  ladies  of  the 
Decamerone  talking  of  death  ;  here  Martin  v,  and  Eugenius  iv, 
fugitives  from  the  Eternal  City,  found  a  refuge ;  here  Beata 
Villana  confessed  her  sins ;  here  Vanna  Tornabuoni  prayed, 
and  the  Strozzi  made  their  tombs.     Full  of  memories — and 


S.  MARIA  NOVELLA  221 

of  what  else,  then,  but  the  past  can  she  dream?  For  her 
there  is  no  future.  Her  convent  is  suppressed,  the  great 
cloister  has  become  a  military  gymnasium.  What  has  she, 
then,  in  common  with  the  modern  world,  with  the  buildings 
of  Piazza  Vittorio  Emmanuele,  for  instance  ? — the  past  is  all 
that  we  have  left  her. 

Begun  in  1278,  as  some  say,  from  the  design  of  Fra 
Ristoro  and  Fra  Sisto,  the  fagade,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
in  the  world,  is  really  the  fifteenth-century  work  of  Leon 
Alberti  working  to  the  order  of  Giovanni  Rucellai — you  may 
see  their  blown  sail  everywhere — with  that  profound  and 
unifying  genius  which  involved  everything  he  touched  in  a 
sort  of  reconciliation,  thus  prophesying  to  us  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  For  Alberti  has  here  very  fortunately  made  the 
pointed  work  of  the  Middle  Age  friends  with  Antiquity,  an 
antiquity  seen  with  the  eyes  of  the  Renaissance,  full  of  a  new 
sort  of  eagerness  and  of  many  little  refinements.  In  the 
facade  of  his  masterpiece,  the  Tempio  Malatestiano  at  Rimini, 
that  beautiful  unfinished  temple  where  the  gods  of  Greece 
seem  for  once  to  have  come  to  the  cradle  of  Jesus  with 
something  of  the  wonder  of  the  shepherds  who  left  their  flocks 
to  worship  Him,  Leon  Alberti  has  taken  as  his  model  the 
arch  of  Augustus,. that  still,  though  broken,  stands  on  the  verge 
of  the  city  in  the  Flaminian  Way ;  but  as  though  aware  at 
last  of  the  danger  of  any  mere  imitation  of  antiquity  such  as 
that,  he  has  here  contrived  to  express  the  beauty  of  Roman 
things,  just  what  he  himself  had  really  felt  concerning  them, 
and  to  have  combined  that  very  happily  with  the  work  of  the 
age  that  was  just  then  passing  away ;  thus,  as  it  were,  creating 
for  us  one  of  the  most  perfect  buildings  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  very  characteristic  too,  in  its  strange  beauty,  as  of  the 
dead  new  risen.  And  then  how  subtly  he  has  composed  this 
beautiful  facade,  so  that  somehow  it  really  adds  to  the  beauty 
of  the  Campanile,  with  its  rosy  spire,  in  the  background. 

Within,  the  church  is  full  of  a  sort  of  twilight,  in  which 
certainly  much  of  its  spaciousness  is  lost ;  those  chapels  in  the 
nave,  for  instance,  added  by  Vasari  in  the  sixteenth  century, 


222    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

have  certainly  spoiled  it  of  much  of  its  beauty.  Built  in  the 
shape  of  a  tau  cross — a  Latin  cross  that  is  almost  tau,  in  old 
days  it  was  divided,  where  still  there  is  a  step  across  the  nave, 
into  two  parts,  one  of  which  was  reserved  for  the  friars,  while 
the  other  was  given  to  the  people.  There  is  not  much  of 
interest  in  this  part  of  the  church :  a  crucifix  over  the  great 
door,  attributed  to  Giotto ;  a  fresco  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  with 
Madonna  and  St.  John,  by  Masaccio,  that  rare  strong  master ; 
the  altar,  the  fourth  in  the  right  aisle,  dedicated  to  St.  Thomas 
of  Canterbury, — almost  nothing  beside.  It  is  in  the  south 
transept,  where  a  flight  of  steps  leads  to  the  Rucellai  Chapel, 
that  we  came  upon  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the 
church,  the  Madonna,  so  long  given  to  Cimabue,  but  now 
claimed  for  Duccio  of  Siena. 

Vasari  describes  for  us  very  delightfully  the  triumph  of  this 
picture,  when,  so  great  was  the  admiration  of  the  people  for  it 
that  "it  was  carried  in  solemn  procession,  with  the  sound  of 
trumpets  and  other  festal  demonstrations,  from  the  house  of 
Cimabue  to  the  church, — he  himself  being  highly  rewarded 
and  honoured  for  it " ;  while,  as  he  goes  on  to  tell  us,  when 
Cimabue  was  painting  it,  in  a  garden  as  it  happened  near 
the  gate  of  S.  Pietro,  King  Charles  of  Sicily,  brother  of  St. 
Louis,  saw  the  picture,  and  praising  it,  "all  the  men  and 
women  of  Florence  hastened  in  great  crowds  to  admire  it, 
making  all  possible  demonstrations  of  delight.  The  in- 
habitants of  the  neighbourhood,  rejoicing  in  this  occurrence 
ever  after,  called  that  place  Borgo  Allegri," — which  it  bears 
to  this  day.  However  reluctant  we  may  be  to  find  Vasari, 
that  divine  gossip,  at  fault,  it  might  seem  that  Cimabue's 
Triumph  is  a  fable,  or  if,  indeed,  it  happened,  was  stolen, 
for  the  Rucellai  Madonna  is  certainly  the  work  of  Duccio 
the  Sienese,^  but  Vasari  was  the  last  person  to  admit  that 
anyone  so  "vana,"  as  he  a  convert  to  Florence  (for  he  was 
born  in  Arezzo)  doubtless  thought  a  Sienese  to  be,'  should 
have  painted  so  fine  a  masterpiece.     Of  the  works  of  Cimabue 

'  Crone  and  Cavalcaselle,  op.  cit.  vol.  i.  187. 
'  Cf.  Dante,  Inferno,  xxix.  121. 


S.  MARIA  NOVELLA  223 

not  one  remains  to  us ;  we  do  not  know,  we  have  certainly 
no  means  of  knowing,  whether  he  was,  as  Ghiberti  tells  us, 
a  painter  in  the  old  Greek  manner,  or  whether,  as  Vasari 
suggests,  he  was  the  true  master  of  Giotto,  in  that  to  him 
was  owing  the  impulse  of  life  which  we  find  so  moving  in 
Giotto's  work.  And  then  Vasari,  it  seems,  is  wrong  in  his 
account  of  Borgo  Allegri,  for  that  place  was  named  not  after 
happiness,  the  happiness  of  that  part  of  the  city  in  their  great 
neighbour,  but  from  a  family  who  in  these  days  lived  there- 
about and  bore  that  name. 

It  is,  however,  of  comparatively  little  importance  who 
painted  the  picture.  The  controversy,  which  is  not  yet 
finished,  serves  for  the  most  part  merely  to  obscure  the 
essential  fact  that  here  is  the  picture  still  in  its  own  place, 
and  that  it  is  beautiful.  Very  lovely,  indeed,  she  is.  Madonna 
of  Happiness,  and  still  at  her  feet  the  poor  may  pray,  and  still 
on  her  dim  throne  she  may  see  day  come  and  evening  fall. 
Far  up  in  the  obscure  height  she  holds  Christ  on  her  knees. 
Perhaps  you  may  catch  the  faint  dim  loveliness  of  her  face 
in  the  early  dawn  amid  the  beauty  of  the  angels  kneeling 
round  her  throne  when  the  light  steals  through  the  shadowy 
windows  across  the  hills  ;  or  perhaps  at  evening  in  the  splendour 
of  some  summer  sunset  you  may  see  just  for  a  moment  the 
whiteness  of  her  delicate  hands ;  but  she  is  secret  and  very 
far  away,  she  has  withdrawn  herself  to  hear  the  prayers  of  the 
poor  in  spirit  who  come  when  the  great  church  is  empty,  when 
the  tourists  have  departed,  when  the  workmen  have  returned 
to  their  homes.  And  beside  her  in  that  strange,  mysterious 
place  Beata  Villana  sleeps,  where  the  angels  draw  back  the 
curtain,  in  a  tomb  by  Desiderio  da  Settignano.  She  was  not 
of  the  great  company  whose  names  we  falter  at  our  altars, 
and  whisper  for  love  over  and  over  again  in  the  quietness  of 
the  night ;  but  of  those  who  are  weary.  Bom  to  a  wealthy 
Florentine  merchant,  Andrea  di  Messer  Lapo  by  name,  little 
Vanna  went  her  ways  with  the  children,  yet  with  a  sort  of 
naive  sincerity  after  all,  so  that  when  she  heard  Saint  Catherine 
praised  or  Saint  Francis,  she  believed  it  and  wished  to  be  of 


224    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

that  company ;  but  the  world,  full  of  glamour  and  laughter  in 
those  days,  and  now  too,  caught  her  by  the  waist  and  bore  her 
away,  in  the  person  of  a  noble  youth  of  the  Benintendi,  who 
loved  her  well  enough ;  yet  it  was  love  she  loved  rather  than 
her  husband,  and  life,  calling  sweetly  enough  down  the  long 
narrow  streets,  she  followed,  yes,  till  she  was  a  little  weary.  So 
she  would  question  her  beauty,  and,  looking  in  her  glass,  see 
not  herself  but  the  demon  love  that  possessed  her ;  and  again 
in  another  mirror  she  found  a  devil,  she  said,  like  a  faun, 
prick-eared  and  with  goat's  feet,  peering  at  her  with  frightening 
eyes.  So  she  stripped  off  her  fair  gay  dresses,  and  took 
instead  the  rough  hair-shirt,  and  came  at  evening  across  the 
Piazza  to  confess  in  S.  Maria  Novella ;  and  gave  herself  to  the 
poor,  and  forgot  the  sun  till  weary  she  fled  away.  Her 
grandson,  as  it  is  said,  built  this  tomb  to  her  memory,  and 
they  wrote  above,  Beata  Villana. 

It  is  always  with  reluctance,  I  think,  that  one  leaves  that 
dim  chapel  of  the  Rucellai,  and  yet  how  many  wonderful 
things  await  us  in  the  church.  In  the  second  chapel  of  the 
transept,  the  Chapel  of  Filippo  Strozzi,  who  is  buried  behind 
the  altar,  Filippino  Lippi,  the  son  of  Fra  Lippo,  the  pupil  of 
Botticelli,  has  painted  certain  frescoes, — a  little  bewildering  in 
their  crowded  beauty,  it  is  true,  but  how  good  after  all  in  their 
liveliness,  their  light  and  shadow,  and  the  pleasant,  eager  faces 
of  the  women — where  St  John  raises  Drusiana  from  the  grave, 
or  St  Philip  drives  out  the  Dragon  of  Hierapolis ;  while  above 
St  John  is  martyred,  and  St  Philip  too.  But  it  is  in  the 
choir  behind  the  high  altar,  where  for  so  long  the  scaffolding 
has  prevented  our  sight,  that  we  come  upon  the  simple  serious 
work  of  Domencio  Ghirlandajo,  whom  all  the  critics  have 
scorned.  Born  in  1449,  the  pupil  of  Alessio  Baldovinetti, 
Ghirlandajo  is  not  a  great  painter  perhaps,  but  rather  a 
craftsman,  a  craftsman  with  a  wonderful  power  of  observation, 
of  noting  truly  the  life  of  his  time.  He  seems  to  have  asked 
of  art  rather  truth  than  beauty.  Almost  wholly,  perhaps, 
without  the  temperament  of  an  artist,  his  success  lies  in  his 
gift  for  expressing  not  beauty  but  the  life  of  his  time,  the 


S.  MARIA  NOVELLA  225 

fifteenth  century  in  Florence,  which  lives  still  in  all  his  work. 
Consider,  then,  the  bright  facile  mediocre  work  of  Benozzo 
Gozzoli,  not  at  its  best,  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  remember 
how  in  the  dark  chapel  of  the  Medici  palace  he  lights  up  the 
place  almost  as  with  a  smile,  in  the  gay  cavalcade  that  winds 
among  the  hills.  There  is  much  fancy  there,  much  observa- 
tion too;  here  a  portrait,  there  a  gallant  fair  head,  and  the 
flowers  by  the  wayside :  well,  it  is  in  much  the  same  way 
that  Ghirlandajo  has  painted  here  in  the  choir  of  S.  Maria 
Novella.  He  has  seen  the  fashions,  he  has  noted  the  pretty 
faces  of  the  women,  he  has  watched  the  naive  homely  life 
of  the  Medici  ladies  and  the  rest,  and  has  painted  not  his 
dreams  about  Madonna,  but  his  dreams  of  Vanna  Torna- 
buoni,  of  Clarice  de'  Medici,  and  the  rest.  And  he  was 
right ;  almost  without  exception  his  frescoes  are  the  most 
interesting  and  living  work  left  in  Florence.  He  has  under- 
stood or  divined  that  one  cannot  represent  exactly  that  which 
no  longer  exists;  and  it  is  to  represent  something  with 
exactitude  that  he  is  at  work.  So  he  contents  himself  very 
happily  with  painting  the  very  soul  of  his  century.  It  is  a 
true  and  sincere  art  this  realistic,  unimpassioned,  impersonal 
work  of  Ghirlandajo's,  and  in  its  result,  for  us  at  any  rate,  it  has 
a  certain  largeness  and  splendour.  Consider  this  "  Birth  of 
the  Virgin."  It  is  full  of  life  and  homely  observation.  You 
see  the  tidy  dusted  room  where  St.  Anne  is  lying  on  the  bed, 
already,  as  in  truth  she  was,  past  her  youth,  but  another  painter 
would  have  forgotten  it.  She  is  just  a  careful  Florentine 
housewife,  thrifty  too,  not  flurried  by  her  illness,  for  she  has 
placed  by  her  bedside,  all  ready  for  her  need,  two  pomegranates 
and  some  water.  Then,  again,  they  are  going  to  wash  the 
little  Mary.  She  lies  quite  happily  sucking  her  fingers  in  the 
arms  of  her  nurse,  the  basin  is  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  a 
servant  has  just  come  in  briskly,  no  doubt  as  St.  Anne  has 
always  insisted,  and  pours  the  water  quickly  into  the  vessel. 
It  is  not  difficult  to  find  all  sorts  of  faults,  of  course,  as  the 
critics  have  not  hesitated  to  do.  That  perspective,  for 
instance,  how  good  it  is :    almost    as  good  as   Verrocchio's 

15 


226    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

work, — and  those  dancing  angiolini\  yes,  Verrocchio  might 
have  thought  of  them  himself.  But  the  lady  in  the  foreground, 
how  unmoved  she  seems ;  it  is  as  though  the  whole  scene 
had  been  arranged  for  the  sake  of  her  portrait;  and,  indeed, 
it  is  a  portrait,  for  the  richly  dressed  visitor  is  Ginevra  de' 
Benci,  who  stands  again  in  the  fresco  of  the  Birth  of  St.  John. 
Again  in  the  fresco  of  the  angel  appearing  to  Zacharias 
in  the  Temple,  there  are  some  thirty  portraits  of  famous 
Florentines,  painted  with  much  patience,  and  no  doubt  with 
an  extraordinary  truth  of  likeness.  In  the  left  comer  you 
may  see  Marsilio  Ficino  dressed  as  a  priest ;  Gentile  de' 
Becchi  turns  to  him,  while  Cristoforo  Landini  in  a  red  cloak 
stands  by,  and  Angelo  Poliziano  lifts  up  his  hands. 

Does  one  ever  regret,  I  wonder,  after  looking  at  these 
realistic  fifteenth-century  works,  that  the  frescoes  of  Orcagna 
— for  he  painted  the  whole  choir — were  destroyed  in  a  storm, 
it  is  said,  in  1358.  Fragments  of  his  work,  however,  we 
are  told,  remained  for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  till,  indeed, 
Ghirlandajo  was  employed  to  replace  them.  We  find  his  work, 
however,  sadly  damaged,  it  is  true,  and  really  his  perhaps 
only  in  outline,  in  the  Strozzi  chapel  here,  the  lofty  chapel  of 
north  transept,  where  he  has  painted  on  the  wall  facing  the 
entrance  the  Last  Judgment,  while  to  the  left  you  may  see 
Paradise,  to  the  right  the  Inferno.  The  pupil  of  Giotto  and 
of  Andrea  Pisano,  Orcagna  is  the  most  important  artist  of  his 
time,  the  one  vital  link  in  the  chain  that  unites  Masolino  with 
Giotto.  He  was  a  universal  artist,  practising  as  an  architect 
and  goldsmith  no  less  than  as  a  painter.  In  the  Last 
Judgment  in  this  chapel  he  seems  not  only  to  have  absorbed 
the  whole  art  of  his  time,  but  to  have  advanced  it ;  for  to  the 
grandeur  and  force  of  his  work  he  added  a  certain  visionary 
loveliness  that  most  surely  already  foretells  Beato  Angelico. 
If  in  the  Paradise  and  the  Inferno  we  are  less  moved  by  the 
greatness  of  his  achievement,  we  remind  ourselves  how  terribly 
they  have  suffered  from  damp,  from  neglect,  from  the  restorer. 
In  the  altar-piece  itself  we  have  perhaps  the  only  "intact 
painting "  of  his  remaining  to  us,  and   splendid  as  it  is  in 


S.  MARIA  NOVELLA  227 

colour  and  form,  it  lacks  something  of  the  rhythm  of  the 
frescoes,  that  like  some  slow  and  solemn  chant  fill  the  chapel 
with  their  sincere  unforgetable  music. 

As  you  pass  beckoned  by  a  friar  into  the  half-ruined 
cloisters  below  S.  Maria  Novella,  you  come  on  your  right 
into  a  little  alley  of  tombs,  behind  which,  on  the  wall,  you 
may  find  two  bits  of  fresco  by  Giotto,  the  Meeting  of  S. 
Joachim  and  S.  Anna  at  the  Golden  Gate,  and  the  Birth  of 
the  Virgin.  On  your  left  you  pass  into  the  Chiostro  Verde, 
where  Poalo  Uccello  has  painted  scenes  from  the  Old 
Testament  in  a  sort  of  green  monotone,  for  once  without 
enthusiasm.  Above  you  and  around  you  rises  the  old 
convent  and  the  great  tower ;  there,  in  the  far  corner,  perhaps 
a  friar  plays  with  a  little  cat,  here  a  pigeon  flutters  under 
the  arches  about  the  little  ruined  space  of  grass,  the  meagre 
grass  of  the  south,  where  now  and  then  the  shadow  of  a  white 
cloud  passes  over  the  city,  whither  who  knows.  For  a  moment 
in  that  silent  place  you  wonder  why  you  have  come,  you  feel 
half  inclined  to  go  back  into  the  church,  when  shyly  the  friar 
comes  towards  you,  and,  leading  you  round  the  cloister,  enters 
the  CappeUna  degli  Spagnuoli. 

How  much  has  been  written  in  praise  of  the  frescoes  in  the 
Spanish  chapel  of  S.  Maria  Novella,  where  Eleonora  of  Toledo, 
the  wife  of  Grand  Duke  Cosimo,  used  to  hear  Mass ;  yet  how 
disappointing  they  are.  In  so  simple  a  building,  some  great 
artist,  you  might  think,  in  listening  to  Ruskin,  had  really 
expressed  himself,  his  thoughts  about  Faith  and  the  triumph  of 
the  Church.  But  the  work  which  we  find  there  is  the  work  of 
mediocrities,  poor  craftsmen  too,  the  pupils  and  imitators  of  the 
Sienese  and  Florentine  school  of  their  time,  having  nothing  in 
common  with  the  excellent  work  of  Taddeo  Gaddi,  the  beauti- 
ful work  of  Simone  Martini  of  Siena.  These  figures,  so  pretty 
and  so  ineffectual,  which  have  been  labelled  here  the  Triumph 
of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  there  the  Triumph  of  the  Church,  have 
no  existence  for  us  as  painting ;  they  have  passed  into  litera- 
ture, and  in  the  pages  of  Ruskin  have  found  a  new  beauty 
that  for  the  first  time  has  given  them  some  semblance  of  life. 


XVII 
FLORENCE 

S.  CROCE 

THE  Piazza  di  S.  Croce,  in  which  stands  the  great 
Franciscan  church  of  Florence,  is  still  almost  as  it  was 
in  the  sixteenth  century  when  the  Palazzo  del  Borgo  on  the 
southern  side  was  painted  in  fresco  by  the  facile  brush  of 
Passignano ;  but  whatever  charm  so  old  and  storied  a  place 
might  have  had  for  us,  for  here  Giuliano  de'  Medici  fought 
in  a  tournament  under  the  eyes  of  La  Bella  Simonetta,  and  here, 
too,  the  Giuoco  del  Calcio  was  played,  it  is  altogether  spoiled 
and  ruined,  not  only  by  the  dishonouring  statue  of  Dante,  which 
for  some  unexplained  reason  has  here  found  a  resting-place, 
but  by  the  crude  and  staring  fagade  of  the  church  itself,  a 
pretentious  work  of  modem  Italy,  which  lends  to  what  was  of 
old  the  gayest  Piazza  in  the  city,  the  very  aspect  of  a 
cemetery. 

Not  long  before  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  a  little 
shrine  of  St.  Anthony  stood  where  now  we  may  see  the  great 
Church  of  S.  Croce,  in  the  midst  of  the  marshes,  as  it  is  said, 
that  waste  land  which  in  the  Middle  Age  seems  to  have 
surrounded  every  city  in  Italy.  It  belonged,  as  did  the  land 
round  about,  to  a  certain  family  called  Altafronte,  who  appear 
to  have  presented  it  to  the  friars  of  the  neighbouring  convent 
of  Franciscans  just  outside  Porta  S.  Gallo.  St.  Francis  being 
dead,  and  the  strictness  of  his  rule  relaxed,  the  first  stone  of 
the  great  Church  of  S.  Croce  was  laid  on  Holy  Cross  Day, 
1297.     Amolfo,  the  architect  of  the  Duomo,  was  the   first 

228 


S.  CROCE  229 

builder  here,  till  later  Giotto  was  appointed.  The  church 
itself , is  in  the  form  of  a  tau  cross,  the  eastern  end  on  both 
sides  of  the  choir  consisting  of  twelve  chapels  scarcely  less  deep 
than  the  choir  and  tiny  apse,  itself  a  chapel  of  St.  Anthony. 
The  wide  and  spacious  nave,  the  new  aisles  could  doubtless 
hold  half  the  city,  as  perhaps  they  did  when  Fra  Francesco  of 
Montepulciano  preached  here  in  the  early  years  of  the  sixteenth 
century  just  after  the  death  of  Savonarola.  And  indeed  the 
very  real  beauty  of  the  church  consists  in  just  that  splendour 
of  space  and  light  which  so  few  seem  to  have  cared  for,  but 
which  seems  to  me  certainly  in  Italy  the  most  precious  thing 
in  the  world.  And  then  S.  Croce  is  really  the  Pantheon,  as 
it  were,  of  the  city;  the  golden  twilight  of  S.  Maria  Novella 
even  would  seem  too  gloomy  for  the  resting-place  of  heroes. 
For  even  before  the  sixteenth  century  it  had  been  here  that 
Florence  had  set  up  the  banners  of  those  she  delighted  to 
honour.  And  though  Cosimo  i  destroyed  them  when  he  let 
Vasari  so  unfortunately  have  his  way  with  the  church,  some 
remembrance  of  the  glory  that  of  old  hung  about  her  seems  to 
have  lingered,  for  here  Michelangelo  was  buried,  under  a 
heavy  monument  by  Vasari,  and  close  by  Vittorio  Alfieri  lies 
in  a  tomb  carved  by  Canova  at  the  request  of  the  Duchess 
of  Albany,  whom  Alfieri  loved.  Not  far  away  you  come  upon 
the  grave  of  Niccolb  Machiavelli,  the  statesman,  beside  the 
monument  erected  to  his  memory  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
And  then  here  too  you  find  the  beautiful  tomb  of  Leonardo 
Bruni,  one  of  the  first  great  scholars  of  the  modem  world, 
and  secretary  to  the  Republic,  who  died  in  1443.  It 
is  the  masterpiece  of  Bernardo  Rossellino  (1409-1464), 
achieved  at  the  end  of  the  early  Renaissance,  and  forming 
the  very  style  of  such  things  for  those  sculptors  who  came 
after  him.  It  is  true  that  the  lunette  of  Madonna  is  a  little 
feeble  and  without  life,  though  some  have  given  it  falsely  to 
Verrocchio,  and  the  two  angioloni  bearing  the  arms  have  little 
force ;  but  the  tomb  itself  is  a  thing  done  once  and  for  all, 
and  the  figure  of  the  dead  poet  is  certainly  the  masterpiece 
of  a  man  who  was  perhaps  the  first  sculptor  in  marble  of  his 


230    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

time.  If  we  compare  it  for  a  moment  with  the  lovely 
Annunciation  of  Donatello  (i  386-1 466)  on  the  other  side  of 
the  gateway,  where  for  once  that  strong  and  fearless  artist  seems 
to  have  contented  himself  with  beauty,  we  shall  understand 
better  the  achievement  of  Rossellino ;  and  though  it  were 
difficult  to  imagine  a  more  lovely  thing  than  that  Annuncia- 
tion set  there  by  the  Cavalcanti,  with  the  winged  wreath  of 
Victory  beneath  it  to  commemorate  their  part  in  the  victory 
of  Florence  over  Pisa  in  1406,  as  a  piece  of  architecture 
Rossellino's  work  is  as  much  better  than  this  earlier  design 
of  Donatello's  as  in  every  other  respect  his  work  falls  below 
it  Covered  with  all  sorts  of  lovely  ornament,  the  frame 
supports  an  elaborate  and  splendid  cornice  on  which  six 
children  stand,  three  grouped  on  either  side,  playing  with 
garlands.  And  within  the  frame,  as  though  seen  through 
some  magic  doorway,  Madonna,  about  to  leave  her  prayers, 
has  been  stopped  by  the  message  of  the  angel,  who  has  not 
yet  fallen  on  his  knees.  It  is  as  though  one  had  come  upon 
the  very  scene  itself  suddenly  at  sunset  on  some  summer  day. 
If  the  tomb  of  Leonardo  Bruni  is  the  masterpiece  of 
Bernardo  Rossellino,  the  tomb  of  Carlo  Marsuppini,  the 
humanist,  Bruni's  successor  as  secretary  to  the  Republic, 
placed  in  the  north  aisle  exactly  opposite,  is  no  less  the  master- 
piece of  another  of  Donatello's  friends,  Desiderio  da  Settignano 
( 1 428-1 464).  Standing  as  they  were  to  do,  face  to  face  across 
the  church,  no  doubt  Desiderio  was  instructed  to  follow  as 
closely  as  might  be  the  general  design  of  Rossellino.  On  a  rich 
bed  Marsuppino  lies,  a  figure  full  of  sweetness  and  strength, 
while  under  is  the  carved  tomb,  supported  by  the  feet  of  lions, 
and  borne  by  a  winged  shell.  On  either  side  two  children  bear 
his  arms,  figures  so  naive  and  lovely  that,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
Luca  della  Robbia  in  his  happiest  moment  might  have  thought 
of  them  almost  in  despair.  Above,  under  a  splendid  canopy  of 
flowers  and  fruit,  in  a  tondo,  severe  and  simple,  is  Madonna  with 
Our  Lord,  and  on  either  side  an  angel  bows  half-smiling,  half- 
weeping,  while  without  stand  two  youths  of  tender  age,  slender 
and  full  of  grace,  but  strong  enough  to  bear  the  great  garland 


S.  CROCE  231 

of  fruits  with  lovely  and  splendid  gestures  of  confidence  and 
expectancy.  Before  the  tomb  in  the  pavement  is  a  plaque  of 
marble,  also  from  the  hand  of  Desiderio,  and  here  Gregorio 
Marsuppini,  Carlo's  father,  lies :  other  similar  works  of  his  you 
may  find  here  and  there  in  the  church. 

Scattered  through  the  two  aisles  and  the  nave  are  many 
modern  monuments  and  tablets  to  famous  Italians,  Dante  who 
lies  at  Ravenna,  Galileo,  Alberti,  Mazzini,  Rossini,  and  the  rest ; 
they  have  but  little  interest.  It  is  not  only  in  the  aisles,  how- 
ever, that  we  find  the  work  of  the  Florentine  sculptors.  Galileo 
Galilei,  an  ancestor  of  the  great  astronomer,  is  buried  in  the 
nave  at  the  west  end,  under  a  carved  tombstone  enthusi- 
astically praised  by  Ruskin.  And  then  on  the  first  pillar  on 
the  right  we  find  the  work  of  Bernardo  Rosselino's  youngest 
brother  Antonio  (1427-1478),  who,  under  the  influence  of 
Desiderio  da  Settignano,  has  carved  there  a  relief  of  Madonna 
and  Child,  surrounded  by  a  garland  of  cherubim  lovely  and  fair. 
Antonio  Rossellino's  work  is  scattered  all  over  Tuscany,  in 
Prato,  in  Empoli,  in  Pistoja,  and  we  shall  find  it  even  in 
such  far-away  places  as  Naples  and  Forh.  His  masterpiece, 
however,  the  beautiful  tomb  of  the  Cardinal  of  Portugal,  is  in 
the  Church  of  S.  Miniato  al  Monte,  of  which  I  shall  speak 
later. 

It  was  another  and  younger  pupil  of  Desiderio's,  Benedetto 
da  Maiano  (144 2- 149  7),  who  made  the  beautiful  pulpit  to 
the  order  of  that  Pietro  Mellini,  whose  bust,  also  from  his  hand, 
is  now  in  the  Bargello.  It  is  the  most  beautiful  pulpit  in  all 
Italy,  splendid  alike  in  its  decoration  and  its  construction.  It 
seems  doubtful  whether  the  pulpit  itself  is  not  earlier  than  the 
five  reliefs  of  the  life  of  St.  Francis  which  surround  it — The 
Confirmation  of  the  Order  by  the  Pope,  the  Test  by  Fire  before 
the  Sultan,  the  Stigmata,  the  Death  of  St.  Francis,  and  the 
Persecution  of  the  Order.  These  were  carved  in  1474,  and  for 
the  life  and  charm  which  they  possess  are  perhaps  Benedetto's 
finest  work.  In  the  beautiful  niches  below  he  has  set  some 
delightful  statuettes,  representing  Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  Forti- 
tude, and  Justice. 


232    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Passing  now  into  the  south  transept,  we  come  to  the  great 
chapel  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  with  its  spoiled  frescoes  of 
the  stories  of  St.  John  Baptist,  St.  John  the  Divine,  St.  Nicholas 
and  St.  Anthony ;  while  here,  too,  is  the  tomb  of  the  Duchess 
of  Albany,  who  was  the  wife  of  the  Young  Pretender,  and  who 
loved  Alfieri  the  poet,  whose  monument  she  caused  Canova  to 
make. 

The  south  transept  ends  in  the  Baroncelli  Chapel,  which 
"between  the  close  of  December  1332  and  the  first  days  of 
August  1338,"  Taddeo  Gaddi  painted  in  fresco.^  Giotto  died 
in  1337,  and  Taddeo,  who  had  served  under  him,  seems  to 
have  been  content  to  carry  on  his  practice  without  bringing 
any  originality  of  his  own  to  the  work.  What  Taddeo  could 
assimilate  of  Giotto's  manner  he  most  patiently  reproduced, 
so  that  his  work,  never  anything  but  a  sort  of  imitation, 
threatens  to  overwhelm  in  its  own  mediocrity  much  of  the 
achievement  of  his  master.  The  beautiful  and  sincere  work 
of  Giotto  in  him  degenerates  into  a  mannerism,  a  mannerism 
that  the  people  of  his  own  day  seem  to  have  appreciated  quite 
as  much  as  the  living  work  of  Giotto  himself.  Taddeo, 
trained  by  his  master  in  the  Giottesque  manner,  became  its  most 
patient  champion,  and  practising  an  art  that  was  in  his  hands 
little  better  than  a  craft,  he  finds  himself  understood,  and  when 
Giotto  is  not  available  very  naturally  takes  his  place.  Here 
in  S.  Croce,  a  church  in  which  Giotto  himself  had  worked,  we 
find  Taddeo's  work  everywhere :  over  the  door  of  the  Sacristy 
he  painted  Christ  and  the  Doctors ;  in  the  Cappella  di  S. 
Andrea,  the  stories  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Andrew ;  in  the  Bellaci 
chapel,  too,  and  above  all  in  this  the  chapel  of  the  Baroncelli 
family.  But  when  Giotto,  being  long  dead,  other  and  newer 
painters  arose,  Taddeo's  work,  out  of  fashion  at  last,  suffered  the 
oblivion  of  whitewash,  sharing  this  fate  with  some  of  the  best 
work  in  Italy :  so  that  there  is  to-day  but  little  left  of  them 
in  S.  Croce  save  these  frescoes,  where  he  has  painted,  not 
without  a  certain  vigour  and  almost  a  gift  for  composition,  the 
story  of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

'  Cf.  Crowe  and  Gavalcaselle,  op,  cit,  vol.  ii.  p.  124. 


S.  CROCE  233 

Close  by,  without  the  chapel,  is  a  very  beautiful  monument 
of  the  school  of  Niccolb  Pisano;  passing  this  and  entering 
the  great  door  of  the  Sacristy,  we  come  into  a  corridor  and 
thence  into  the  Sacristy  itself,  which  Vasari  covered  with 
whitewash.  Built  in  the  fourteenth  century,  it  is  divided 
into  two  parts  by  a  grating  of  exquisitely  wrought  iron  of  the 
same  period.  Behind  this  grating  is  the  Rinuccini  chapel, 
painted  in  fresco  by  a  pupil  of  Taddeo  Gaddi,  Giovanni  da 
Milano,  in  whose  work  we  may  discern,  in  spite  of  the  rigid 
convention  of  his  master,  something  sincere,  a  lightness  and 
grace,  and  even  perhaps  a  certain  reliance  on  Nature,  which 
the  authority  of  Giotto  had  perhaps  spoiled  for  Taddeo  him- 
self. It  is  the  stories  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  of  St.  Mary 
Magdalen  that  he  has  set  himself  to  tell,  with  an  infinite 
detail  that  a  little  confuses  his  really  fine  and  sincere  work. 
Repainted  though  they  be,  something  of  their  original 
beauty  may  still  be  found  there,  their  simplicity  and  homely 
realism. 

At  the  end  of  the  corridor  is  the  chapel  which  Cosimo  de' 
Medici,  Pater  Patriae  caused  Michelozzo  to  build  for  his 
delight.  Over  the  altar  is  one  of  the  loveliest  works  of 
the  della  Robbia  school,  a  Madonna  and  Child,  between  St. 
Anthony  of  Padua,  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  St.  John  Baptist, 
St.  Laurence,  St.  Louis  of  Toulouse,  and  St.  Francis ;  while  on 
the  wall  is  a  later  work  of  the  same  school,  after  a  work 
by  Verrocchio,  where  Madonna  holds  her  Son  in  her  arms ; 
while  opposite  is  another  work  by  a  Tuscan  sculptor,  a 
Tabernacle,  by  Mino  da  Fiesole  (i  431-1484),  who  certainly 
has  loved  the  gracious  marbles  of  Desiderio  da  Settignano. 
The  picture  of  the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin  beside  this 
Tabernacle,  once  the  altar-piece  of  the  Baroncelli  Chapel,  a 
genuine  work  of  Giotto's,  as  it  is  thought,  is  tender  in  feeling 
and  magnificent  in  arrangement  and  composition.  Full  of  a 
grave  earnestness  and  full  of  ardent  life, — mark  the  eagerness 
of  those  clouds  of  Saints, — it  is  worthy  of  a  painter  of  the 
tribune  of  the  Lower  Church  at  Assisi. 

Returning  now  to  the  church  itself,  we  begin  our  examina- 


234    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

tion  of  those  twelve  chapels,  which  with  the  choir  form  the 
eastern  end  of  S.  Croce.  The  first  three  chapels  have  little 
interest,  but  the  two  nearest  the  choir,  Cappella  Peruzzi  and 
Cappella  Bardi,  were  both  painted  in  fresco  by  Giotto,  his 
work  there  being  among  the  best  of  his  paintings. 

The  Penizzi  Chapel  was  built  by  the  powerful  family  of 
that  name,  who  had  already  done  much  for  S.  Croce,  when 
about  1307  they  employed  Giotto  to  decorate  these  walls 
with  frescoes  of  the  story  of  St.  John  Baptist  and  St.  John  the 
Divine.  In  1 7 1 4,  the  new  Vasari  tells  us,i  and,  indeed,  we 
may  read  as  much  on  the  floor  of  the  chapel  itself, 
Bartolommeo  di  Simone  Peruzzi  caused  the  place  to  be 
restored,  and  it  was  then,  as  we  may  suppose,  that  the  work 
of  Giotto  was  covered  with  whitewash.  It  was  in  184 1  that 
the  Dance  of  Herodias  was  discovered,  and  the  whitewash 
not  very  carefully,  perhaps,  removed,  and  by  1863  the  rest 
of  the  frescoes  here  were  brought  to  light.  In  their  original 
brightness  they  formed  probably  "  the  finest  series  of  frescoes 
which  Giotto  ever  produced " ;  but  the  hand  of  the  restorer 
has  spoiled  them  utterly,  so  that  only  the  shadow  of  their 
former  beauty  remains,  amid  much  that  is  hard  or  un- 
pleasing. 

On  the  left  we  see  the  story  of  St.  John  Baptist ;  above, 
the  Angel  announces  to  Zacharias  the  birth  of  a  son ;  and 
with  I  know  not  what  mastery  of  his  art,  Giotto  tells  us  of 
it  with  a  simplicity  and  perfection  beyond  praise.  If  we 
consider  the  work  merely  as  a  composition,  it  is  difficult  to 
imagine  anything  more  lovely ;  and  then  how  beautiful  and 
full  of  life  is  the  angel  who  has  entered  so  softly  into  the 
Holy  of  Holies,  not  altogether  without  dismay  to  the  high 
priest,  who,  busy  swinging  his  censer  before  the  altar,  has 
suddenly  looked  up  and  seen  a  vision.  Below,  we  see 
the  Birth  of  St.  John  Baptist,  where  Elizabeth  is  a  little 
troubled,  it  may  be,  about  her  dumb  husband,  to  whom  the 
child  has  been  brought.  An  old  man  with  an  eager  and 
noble  gesture  seems  to  argue  with  /^charias,  holding  the 
'  Crowe  and  Cavalcasellc,  op.  cit.  vol.  ii.  p.  77. 


S.  CROCE  235 

child  the  while  by  the  shoulder,  and  Zacharias  writes  the 
name  on  his  knee.  Below  this  again  is  the  Dance  of 
Herodias,  the  first  of  these  frescoes  to  be  uncovered  and 
ruined  in  the  process.  But  even  yet,  in  the  perfect  group- 
ing of  the  figures,  the  splendour  of  the  viol  player,  the 
frightened  gaze  of  the  servants,  we  may  still  see  the  very 
hand  of  Giotto. 

But  it  is  in  the  frescoes  on  the  right  wall  that  Giotto  is 
seen  at  his  highest :  it  is  the  story  of  St.  John  the  Divine ; 
above  he  dreams  on  Patmos,  below  he  raises  Drusiana  at 
the  Gate  of  Ephesus,  and  is  himself  received  into  heaven. 
Damaged  though  they  be,  there  is  nothing  in  all  Italian  art 
more  fundamental,  more  simple,  or  more  living  than  these 
frescoes.  It  is  true  that  the  Dream  of  St.  John  is  almost 
ruined,  and  what  we  see  to-day  is  very  far  from  being  what 
Giotto  painted,  but  in  the  Raising  of  Drusiana  and  in  the 
Ascension  of  St.  John  we  find  a  grandeur  and  force  that 
is  absent  from  painting  till  Giotto's  time,  and  for  very  many 
years  after  his  death.  The  restorer  has  done  his  best  to 
obliterate  all  trace  of  Giotto's  achievement,  especially  in  the 
fresco  of  Drusiana,  but  in  spite  of  him  we  may  see  here 
Giotto's  very  work,  the  essence  of  it  at  any  rate,  its  intention 
and  the  variety  of  his  powers  of  expressing  himself. 

The  chapel  nearest  the  choir  was  built  by  Ridolfo  de'  Bardi 
sometime,  it  is  said,  after  1310,^  and  it  is  for  him  that  Giotto 
painted  there  the  story  of  St.  Francis ;  while  on  the  ceiling  he 
has  painted  the  three  Franciscan  virtues.  Poverty,  Chastity, 
and  Obedience,  and  in  the  fourth  space  has  set  St.  Francis 
in  Glory,  as  he  had  done  in  a  different  manner  at  Assisi. 

After  the  enthusiastic  pages  of  Ruskin,^  to  describe  these 
frescoes,  beautiful  still,  in  spite  of  their  universal  restoration, 
would  be  superfluous.  It  will  be  enough  to  refer  the  reader 
to  his  pages,  and  to  add  the  subjects  of  the  series.  Above, 
on  the  left  wall,  St.  Francis  renounces  his  father,  while  below 
he  appears  to  the  brethren  at  Aries,  and  under  this  we  see 

*  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  o/>.  cit.  vol.  ii.  p.  81. 
'  Mornings  in  Floretue,  by  John  Ruskin. 


236    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

his  death.  On  the  left  above,  Pope  Honorius  gives  him  his 
Rule,  and  below,  he  challenges  the  pagan  priests  to  the  test 
of  the  fire  before  the  Sultan,  and  appears  to  Gregory  ix,  who 
had  thought  to  deny  that  he  received  the  Stigmata.  Beside 
the  window  Giotto  has  painted  four  great  Franciscans,  St. 
Louis  of  Toulouse,  St  Clare,  St  Louis  of  France,  and  St. 
Elizabeth  of  Hungary.  All  these  frescoes  in  the  Bardi 
Chapel  are  much  more  damaged  by  restoration  than  those 
in  Cappella  Peruzzi. 

In  the  choir,  behind  the  high  altar,  Agnolo  Gaddi,  one  of 
the  two  sons  of  Taddeo,  has  painted,  with  a  charm  and  bright- 
ness of  colour  that  hide  the  poor  design,  the  story  of  the  Holy 
Cross.  It  was  at  the  request  of  Jacopo  degli  Alberti  that 
Agnolo  painted  these  eight  frescoes,  where  the  angel  gives 
a  branch  of  the  Tree  of  Life  from  Eden  to  Seth,  whom 
Adam,  feeling  his  death  at  hand,  had  sent  on  this  errand. 
Seth  returns,  however,  only  to  find  Adam  dead,  and  the 
branch  is  planted  on  his  grave.  Then  in  the  course  of  ages 
that  branch  grows  to  a  tree,  is  hewn  down,  and,  as  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  passes  on  her  way  to  King  Solomon,  the 
carpenters  are  striving  to  cut  the  wood  for  the  Temple, 
but  they  reject  it  and  throw  it  into  the  Pool  of  Bethesda. 
And  this  rejected  tree  was  at  length  hewn  into  the  Cross  of 
Our  Lord.  Then  came  Queen  Helena  to  seek  that  blessed 
wood,  and  finding  the  three  crosses,  and  in  ignorance  which 
was  that  of  Our  Lord,  commands  that  the  dead  body  of  a 
youth  which  is  borne  by  shall  be  touched  with  them  all, 
one  after  another.  So  they  find  the  True  Cross,  for  at  its 
touch  the  youth  rises  from  his  bier.  Then  they  bear  the 
cross  before  the  Queen  :  till  presently  it  is  lost  to  Chosroes, 
King  of  Persia,  who  took  Jerusalem  "in  the  year  of  Our 
Lord  six  hundred  and  fifteen,"  and  bare  away  with  him 
that  part  of  the  Holy  Cross  which  St  Helena  had  left  there. 
So  he  made  a  tower  of  gold  and  of  silver,  crusted  with 
precious  stones,  and  set  the  Cross  of  Our  Lord  before  him, 
and  commanded  that  he  should  be  called  God.  Then 
Heraclius,  the  Emperor,  went  out  against  him  by  the  river 


S.  CROCE  237 

of  Danube,  and  they  fought  the  one  with  the  other  upon 
the  bridge,  and  agreed  together  that  the  victor  should  be 
prince  of  the  whole  Empire :  and  God  gave  the  victory  to 
Heraclius,  who  bore  the  Cross  into  Jerusalem.  So  Agnolo 
Gaddi  has  painted  the  story  in  the  choir  of  S.  Croce. 

In  the  chapels  on  the  north  side  of  the  choir  there  is 
but  little  of  interest.  And  then  one  is  a  little  weary  of 
frescoes.  If  we  return  to  the  south  aisle  and  pass  through 
the  door  between  the  Annunciation  of  Donatello  and  the 
tomb  of  Leonardo  Bruni,  we  shall  come  into  the  beautiful 
cloisters  of  Amolfo,  where  there  will  be  sunshine  and  the 
soft  sky.  Here,  too,  is  the  beautiful  Cappellone  that 
Brunellesco  built  for  the  Pazzi  family,  whose  arms  decorate 
the  porch.  Under  a  strange  and  beautiful  dome,  which,  as 
Burckhardt  reminds  us,  Giuliano  de  Sangallo  imitated  in 
Madonna  delle  Carceri  at  Prato,  Brunellesco  has  built  a 
chapel  in  the  form  almost  of  a  Greek  cross.  And  without, 
before  it,  he  has  set,  under  a  vaulted  roof,  a  portico  borne  by 
columns,  interrupted  by  a  round  arch.  It  is  the  earliest 
example,  perhaps,  of  the  new  Renaissance  architecture. 
Very  fair  and  surprising  it  is  with  its  frieze  of  angels'  heads 
by  Donatello,  helped  perhaps  by  Desiderio  da  Settignano. 
Within,  too,  you  come  upon  Donatello's  work  again,  in  the 
Four  Evangelists  in  the  spandrels,  and  below  them  the 
Twelve  Apostles. 

Walking  in  the  cloisters,  you  find  the  great  ancient  refectory 
of  the  convent  itself,  which  has  here  been  turned  into  a 
museum,  while  another  part  of  it  is  used  as  a  barracks ; 
and  indeed  the  finest  cloister  of  the  Early  Renaissance,  one 
of  the  loveliest  works  of  Brunellesco,  has  also  been  given  up 
to  the  army  of  Italy.  The  museum  contains  much  that,  in  its 
removal  here  or  dilapidation,  has  lost  nearly  all  its  interest. 
The  beautiful  fresco  of  St.  Eustace,  said  to  be  the  work  of 
Andrea  Castagno,  is  yet  full  of  delight,  while  here  and  there 
amid  these  old  crucifixes,  tabernacles,  and  frescoes,  by  pupils 
of  Giotto  long  forgotten,  something  will  charm  you  by  its 
sincerity  or  naive  beauty,  so  that   you   will   forget,  if  only 


238    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

for  a  moment,  the  destruction  that  has  befallen  all  around 
you :  the  convent  that  once  housed  S.  Bernardino  of  Siena, 
now  noisy  with  conscripts,  the  library  housed  in  another 
convent,  Dominican  once,  that  like  this  has  become  a 
museum  and  public  monument  of  vandalism  and  rapacity. 


XVIII 
FLORENCE 

S.  LORENZO 

SOMETHING  of  the  eager,  restless  desire  for  beauty,  for 
antique  beauty,  so  characteristic  of  the  fifteenth  century 
— for  the  security  and  strength  of  just  that,  may  be  found  in 
S.  Lorenzo  and  S.  Spirito,  those  two  churches  which  we  owe  to 
the  genius  of  Brunellesco,  and  in  them  we  seem  to  find  the 
negation,  as  it  were,  of  the  puritan  spirit,  of  all  that  the 
Convent  of  S.  Marco  had  come  to  mean :  as  though  when, 
one  day  at  dawn,  the  peasants  ploughing  in  some  little  valley 
in  the  hills,  coming  upon  the  gleaming  white  body  of  the 
witch  Venus,  had,  in  burning  the  precious  statue  which  had 
there  lain  so  long  in  the  earth,  not  been  able  altogether  to 
destroy  the  spirit,  free  here  at  last,  which  in  the  cool  twilight 
had  escaped  them  to  wander  about  the  city.  It  is  the  spirit 
of  Rome  you  come  upon  in  S.  Lorenzo,  the  old  Rome  of  the 
Basilicas,  that  were  but  half  Christian  after  all,  and,  still  in 
ruin,  seem  to  remember  the  Gods. 

A  church  has  stood  on  this  spot  certainly  since  pagan 
times,  for  it  is  said  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  century, 
one  Giuliana,  who  had  three  daughters  but  no  son,  vowed  a 
church  to  St.  Laurence  if  he  would  grant  her  a  son  ;  and  a  son 
being  born  to  her  she  founded  S.  Lorenzo,  and  called  the 
child  Laurence  for  praise.  St.  Ambrose  is  said  to  have  come 
from  Milan  to  consecrate  the  place,  bringing  with  him  certain 
relics,  the  bones  of  S.  Agniola  and  S.  Vitale,  victims  of  the 
pagans,  which  he  had  found  in  Bologna ;  while  for  sixty  years, 

230 


240    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

till  490,  the  body  of  S.  Zenobio  lay  here.  In  those  days, 
and  until  the  last  years  of  the  eleventh  century,  S.  Lorenzo 
stood  without  the  walls,  and  when  Cosimo  came  back  to 
Florence,  the  old  church,  which  had  fallen  into  decay,  was 
already  being  rebuilt,  Giovanni  di  Bicci  de'  Medici,  with 
others,  having  given  the  work  to  Brunellesco.  Filippo 
Brunellesco,  however,  had  got  no  farther,  it  seems,  than  the 
Sagrestia  Vecchia  when  he  died,  while  Antonio  Manetti,  who 
succeeded  him  as  architect,  changed  somewhat  his  design. 
The  church  was  consecrated  at  last  in  1461,  some  three 
years  before  the  death  of  Cosimo,  who  lies  before  the  high 
altar. 

It  is  really  as  the  resting-place  of  the  Medici  that  we  have 
come  to  consider  S.  Lorenzo,  for  here  lie  not  only  Giovanni 
di  Bicci  and  Piccarda,  the  parents  of  Cosimo  Pater  Patriae, 
and  Cosimo  himself,  but  Piero  and  Giovanni  his  sons,  while 
in  the  new  sacristy  lie  Giuliano  and  Lorenzo  Magnifico  his 
grandsons,  and  their  namesakes  Giuliano  Due  de  Nemours 
and  Lorenzo  Due  d'Urbino ;  and  in  the  Cappella  dei  Principi, 
built  in  1604  by  Matteo  Nigetti,  lie  the  Grand  Dukes  from 
Cosimo  I  to  Cosimo  in,  the  rulers  of  Florence  and  Tuscany 
from  the  sixteenth  to  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth 
centuries. 

The  church  itself  is  in  the  form  of  a  Latin  cross,  consisting 
of  nave  and  aisles  and  transepts,  being  the  nave  covered  with 
a  flat  coffered  ceiling,  though  the  aisles  are  vaulted.  Along 
the  aisles  are  square  chapels,  scarcely  more  than  recesses,  and 
above  the  great  doors  is  a  chapel  supported  by  pillars,  a 
design  of  Michelangelo,  who  was  to  have  built  the  facade  for 
Leo  X,  but,  after  infinite  thought  and  work  in  the  marble 
mountains,  the  Pope  bade  him  abandon  it  in  15 19.  For 
many  years  a  single  pillar,  the  only  one  that  ever  came  to 
Florence  of  all  those  hewn  for  the  church  in  Pietrasanta,  lay 
forlorn  in  the  Piazza. 

Those  chapels  that  flank  the  aisles  have  to-day  but  little 
interest  for  us,  here  and  there  a  picture  or  a  piece  of  sculp)- 
ture,  but  nothing  that  will  keep  us  for  more  than  a  moment 


S.  LORENZO  241 

from  the  chapels  of  the  transept,  the  work  of  Desiderio  da 
Settignano,  of  Verrocchio,  and,  above  all,  of  Donatello.  It 
is  all  unaware  to  the  tomb  of  this  the  greatest  sculptor,  and 
in  many  ways  the  most  typical  artist,  Florence  ever  produced, 
that  we  come,  when,  standing  in  front  of  the  high  altar,  we 
read  the  inscription  on  that  simple  slab  of  stone  which  marks 
the  tomb  of  Cosimo  Vecchio ;  for  Donatello  lies  in  the  same 
vault  with  his  great  patron.  A  modern  monument  in  the 
Martelli  Chapel,  where  the  beautiful  Annunciation  by  Lippo 
Lippi  hangs  under  a  crucifix  by  Cellini,  in  the  left  transept, 
commemorates  him ;  but  he  needs  no  such  reminder  here, 
for  about  us  is  his  beautiful  and  unforgetable  work :  not 
perhaps  the  two  ambones,  which  he  only  began  on  his  return 
from  Padua  when  he  was  sixty-seven  years  old,  and  which  were 
finished  by  his  pupils  Bertoldo  and  Bellano,  but  the  work  in  the 
old  sacristy  built  in  1421  by  Brunellesco.  How  rough  is  the 
modelling  in  the  ambone  reliefs,  as  though  really,  as  Bandinelli 
has  said,  the  sight  of  the  old  sculptor  was  failing ;  and  yet,  in 
spite  of  age  and  the  intervention  of  his  pupils,  how  his  genius 
asserts  itself  in  a  certain  rhythm  and  design  in  these  tragic 
panels,  where,  under  a  frieze  of  dancing  /«///, — loves  or 
angels  I  know  not, — of  bulls  and  horses,  he  has  carved  the 
Agony  in  the  Garden,  Christ  before  Pilate,  and  again  before 
Caiaphas,  the  Crucifixion,  the  Deposition,  in  the  southern 
ambone;  while  in  the  northern  we  find  the  Descent  into 
Hades,  where  John  Baptist  welcomes  our  Lord,  who  draws 
forth  Adam,  and,  as  Dante  records,  Abel  too,  and  Noah, 
Moses,  Abraham,  and  David,  Isaac  and  Jacob  and  his  sons, 
not  without  Rachel,  E  altri  tnolti,  e  fecegli  beati,  the  Resurrec- 
tion and  the  Ascension,  the  Maries  at  the  Tomb,  the  Pentecost. 
It  is  another  and  very  different  work  you  come  upon  in  the 
Cantoria,  which,  lovely  though  it  be,  seems  to  be  rather  for  a 
sermon  than  for  singing,  so  cold  it  is,  and  yet  full  enough  of 
his  perfect  feeling  for  construction,  for  architecture.  It  has  a 
rhythm  of  its  own,  but  it  is  the  rhythm  of  prose,  not  of  poetry. 
The  old  sacristy,  which  is  full  of  him — for  indeed  all  the 
decorative  work  seems  to  be  his — is  one  of  the  first  buildings 
16 


242    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

of  the  Renaissance,  the  beautiful  work  of  Filippo  Brunelleschi. 
Covered  by  a  polygonal  dome,  the  altar  itself  stands  under 
another,  low  and  small:  and  everywhere  Donatello  has  added 
beauty  to  beauty,  the  two  friends  for  once  combining  to 
produce  a  masterpiece,  though  not,  as  it  is  said,  without  a 
certain  uneasiness,  certain  differences,  between  them.  "  Donate 
undertook  to  decorate  the  sacristy  of  S.  Lorenzo  in  stucco  for 
Cosimo  de'  Medici,"  Vasari  tells  us.  *'  In  the  angles  of  the 
ceiling  he  executed  four  medallions,  the  ornaments  of  which 
were  partly  painted  in  perspective,  partly  stories  of  the 
Evangelists^  in  basso-relievo.  In  the  same  place  he  made 
two  doors  of  bronze  in  basso-relievo  of  most  exquisite 
workmanship :  on  these  doors  he  represented  the  apostles, 
martyrs,  and  confessors,  and  above  these  are  two  shallow 
niches,  in  one  of  which  are  S.  Lorenzo  and  S.  Stefano ;  in  the 
other,  S.  Cosimo  and  S.  Damiano."  The  sacristy,  according 
to  Vasari,  was  the  first  work  proceeded  with  in  the  church. 
Cosimo  took  so  much  pleasure  in  it  that  he  was  almost 
always  himself  present,  and  such  was  his  eagerness,  that  while 
Brunellesco  built  the  sacristy,  he  made  Donatello  prepare  the 
ornaments  in  stucco,  "  with  the  stone  decorations  of  the  small 
doors  and  the  doors  of  bronze."  And  it  is  in  these  bronze 
doors  that,  as  it  seems  to  me,  you  have  Donato  at  his  best, 
full  of  energy  and  life,  yet  never  allowing  himself  for  a 
moment  to  forget  that  he  was  a  sculptor,  that  his  material 
was  bronze  and  had  many  and  various  beauties  of  its  own, 
which  it  was  his  business  to  express.  There  are  two  doors, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  altar,  and  these  doors  are  made  in 
two  parts,  and  each  part  is  divided  into  five  panels.  With  a 
loyalty  and  apprehension  of  the  fitness  of  things  really 
beyond  praise,  Donatello  has  here  tried  to  do  nothing  that 
was  outside  the  realm  of  sculpture.  It  was  not  for  him  to 
make  the  Gates  of  Paradise,  but  the  gates  of  a  sacristy  in  S. 
Lorenzo.  His  work  is  in  direct  descent  from  the  work  of 
the  earliest  Italian  sculptors,  a  legitimate  and  very  beautiful 

*  Not  of  the  Evangelists,  but  of  St.  John  :  the  medallions  are  the  Four 
Evangelists. 


S.  LORENZO  243 

development  of  their  work  within  the  confines  of  an  art  which 
was  certainly  sufficient  to  itself.  Consider,  then,  the  naturalism 
of  that  figure  who  opens  his  book  on  his  knees  so  suddenly 
and  with  such  energy;  or  again,  the  exquisite  reluctance  of 
him  who  in  the  topmost  panel  turns  away  from  the  preaching 
of  the  apostle.  Certainly  here  you  have  work  that  is  simple, 
sincere,  full  of  life  and  energy,  and  is  beautiful  just  because  it 
is  perfectly  fitting  and  without  affectation.^  In  one  of  the 
two  small  rooms  which  are  on  each  side  of  the  sacristy, 
having  the  altar  between  them,  Brunellesco  by  Cosimo's 
orders  made  a  well.  Here,  Vasari  tells  us  later.  Donate 
placed  a  marble  lavatory,  on  which  Andrea  Verrocchio  also 
worked ;  but  the  Lavabo  we  find  there  to-day  seems  very 
doubtfully  Donatello's. 

In  the  centre  of  the  sacristy  itself,  Vasari  tells  us,  Cosimo 
caused  the  tomb  of  his  father  Giovanni  to  be  made  beneath 
a  broad  slab  of  marble,  supported  by  four  columns ;  and  in 
the  same  place  he  made  a  sepulchre  for  his  family,  wherein 
he  separated  the  tombs  of  the  men  from  those  of  the  women. 
But  again  this  work  too  seems,  in  spite  of  Vasari,  to  belong 
rather  uncertainly  to  Donatello.  It  is  very  rare  to  find  a 
detached  tomb  in  Italy,  and  rarer  still  to  find  it  under  a  table, 
where  it  is  very  difficult  to  see  it  properly,  and  the  care  and 
beauty  that  have  been  spent  upon  it  might  seem  to  be  wasted. 
It  is  perhaps  rather  Buggiano's  hand  than  Donato's  we  see 
even  in  so  beautiful  a  thing  as  this,  which  Donatello  may  well 
have  designed.  The  beautiful  bust  of  S.  Lorenzo  over  the 
doorway  is,  however,  the  authentic  work  of  Donate  himself. 
Full  of  eagerness,  S.  Lorenzo  looks  up  as  though  to  answer 
some  request,  and  to  grant  it. 

The  splendid  porphyry  sarcophagus  set  in  bronze  before  a 
bronze  screen  of  great  beauty,  by  Verocchio,  is  certainly  one 
of  the  finest  things  here.  Every  leaf  and  curl  of  the  foliage 
seem  instinct  with  some  splendid  life,  to  tremble  almost  witli 

'  See  Donatello,  by  Lord  Balcarres,  p.  136  (London,  1904),  where  a 
long  comparison  is  made  of  the  doors  of  Donatello,  Ghiberti,  and  Luca  della 
Robbia. 


244    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  fierceness  of  their  vitality.  There  lie  Giovanni  and  Piero 
de'  Medici,  the  uncle  and  father  of  Lorenzo  Magnifico.  Close 
by  you  may  see  a  relief  of  Cosimo  Vecchio,  their  father. 

The  cloisters,  where  Lorenzo  walked  often  enough,  are 
beautiful,  and  then  from  them  one  passes  so  easily  into  the 
Laurentian  Library,  founded  by  Cosimo  Vecchio,  and  treasured 
and  added  to  by  Piero  and  Lorenzo  Magnifico,  but  scattered 
and  partly  destroyed  by  the  vandalism  and  futile  stupidity  of 
Savonarola  and  his  puritans  in  1494.  Savonarola,  however,  was 
a  cleverer  demagogue  than  our  Oliver  (it  is  well  to  remember 
that  he  was  a  Dominican),  for  he  persuaded  the  Signoria  to  let 
him  have  such  of  the  MSS.  as  he  could  find  for  the  library  of 
S.  Marco.  The  honour  of  such  a  person  is  perhaps  not  worth 
discussing,  but  we  may  remind  ourselves  what  Cosimo  had 
done  for  S.  Marco,  and  how  he  had  built  the  library  there. 
In  1508  the  friars  turned  these  stolen  goods  into  money, 
selling  them  back  to  Cardinal  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  who  was 
soon  to  be  Leo  x,  who  carried  them  to  Rome.  Cardinal 
Giulio  de'  Medici,  later  Clement  vii,  presented  Leo's  collection 
to  the  Laurentian  Library,  which  he  had  bidden  Michelangelo 
to  rebuild.  This  was  interrupted  by  the  unfortunate  business 
of  1527,  and  it  was  not  till  Cosimo  i  came  that  the  library 
was  finished.  Perhaps  the  most  precious  thing  here  is  the 
Pandects  of  Justinian,  taken  by  the  Pisans  from  Amalfi  in 
1 135,  and  seized  by  the  Florentines  when  they  took  Pisa  in 
1406.  Amalfi  prized  these  above  everything  she  possessed, 
Pisa  was  ready  to  defend  them  with  her  life,  Florence  spent 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  florins  to  possess  herself  of  them — 
for  in  them  was  thought  to  lie  the  secret  of  the  law  of  Rome. 
Who  knows  what  Italy,  under  the  heel  of  the  barbarian,  does  not 
owe  to  these  faded  pages,  and  through  Italy  the  world  ?  They 
were,  as  it  were,  the  symbol  of  Latin  civilisation  in  the  midst 
of  German  barbarism.  Here  too  is  that  most  ancient  Virgil 
which  the  French  stole  in  1804.  Here  is  Petrarch's  Horace 
and  a  Dante  transcribed  by  Villani ;  and,  best  of  all,  the  only 
ancient  codex  in  the  world  of  what  remains  to  us  of  i^schylus, 
of  what  is  left  of  Sophocles.     It  is  in  such  a  place  that  we 


S.  LORENZO  245 

may  best  recognise  the  true  greatness  of  the  abused  Medici. 
Tyrants  they  may  have  been,  but  when  the  mob  was  tyrant  it 
satisfied  itself  with  destroying  what  they  with  infinite  labour 
had  gathered  together  for  the  advancement  of  learning,  the 
civilisation  of  the  world.  What,  then,  was  that  Savonarola 
whom  all  have  conspired  to  praise,  whose  windy  prophecies, 
whose  blasphemous  cursings  men  count  as  so  precious?  In 
truth  in  his  fashion  he  was  but  a  tyrant  too — a  tyrant,  and  a 
poor  one,  and  therefore  the  more  dangerous,  the  more  dis- 
astrous. To  the  Medici  we  owe  much  of  what  is  most  beauti- 
ful in  Florence — the  loveliest  work  of  Botticelli,  of  Brunellesco, 
of  Donatello,  of  Lippo  Lippi,  of  Michelangelo,  and  the  rest, 
to  say  nothing  of  such  a  priceless  collection  of  books  and 
MSS.  as  this.  Is,  then,  the  work  of  Marsilio  Ficino  nothing, 
the  labours  of  a  thousand  forgotten  humanists  ?  What  do  we 
owe  to  Savonarola?  He  burnt  the  pictures  which  to  his 
sensual  mind  suggested  its  own  obscenity ;  he  stole  the  MSS., 
and  no  doubt  would  have  destroyed  them  too,  to  write  instead 
his  own  rhetorical  and  extraordinary  denunciations  of  what  he 
did  not  understand.  Who  can  deny  that  when  he  proposed 
to  give  freedom  to  Florence  he  was  dreaming  of  a  new 
despotism,  the  despotism,  if  not  of  himself,  of  that  Jesus 
whom  he  believed  had  inspired  him,  and  on  whom  he  turned 
in  his  rage  ?  That  he  was  brave  we  know,  but  so  was  Cataline  ; 
that  he  believed  in  himself  we  like  to  believe,  and  so  did 
Arius  of  Alexandria ;  that  he  carried  the  people  with  him  is 
certain,  and  so  did  they  who  crucified  Jesus ;  but  that  he 
was  a  turbulent  fellow,  a  puritan,  a  vandal,  a  boaster,  a  wind- 
bag, a  discredited  prophet,  and  a  superstitious  failure,  we 
also  know,  as  he  doubtless  did  at  last,  when  the  wild  beast  he 
had  roused  had  him  by  the  throat,  and  burnt  him  in  the  fire 
he  had  invoked.  His  political  ideas  were  beneath  contempt ; 
they  were  insincere,  as  he  proved,  and  they  were  merely  an 
excuse  for  riot.  He  bade,  or  is  said  to  have  bidden,  Lorenzo 
restore  her  liberty  to  Florence.  When,  then,  had  Florence 
possessed  this  liberty,  of  which  all  these  English  writers  who 
sentimentalise  over   this  unique   and    unfortunate    Ferrarese 


246    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

traitor  speak  with  so  much  feeling  and  awe?  Florence  had 
never  possessed  political  liberty  of  any  sort  whatever  j  she  was 
ruled  by  the  great  families,  by  the  guilds,  by  an  oligarchy,  by  a 
despot.  She  was  never  free  till  she  lost  herself  in  Italy  in  1 860. 
Socially  she  was  freer  under  the  Medici  than  she  was  before 
or  has  been  since.  ^  In  the  production  of  unique  personalities 
a  sort  of  social  freedom  is  necessary,  and  Florence  under  the 
earlier  Medici  might  seem  to  have  produced  more  of  such 
men  than  any  other  city  or  state  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
saving  Athens  in  the  time  of  the  despot  Pericles.  The 
happiest  period  in  the  history  of  Athens  was  that  in  which  he 
was  master,  even  as  the  greatest  and  most  fortunate  years  in 
the  history  of  the  Florentine  state  were  those  in  which  Cosimo, 
Piero,  and  Lorenzo  ruled  in  Florence.  And  when  at  last 
Lorenzo  died,  the  Pope  saw  very  clearly  that  on  that  day  had 
passed  away  "  the  peace  of  Italy."  It  is  to  the  grave  of  this 
great  and  unique  man  you  come  when  leaving  the  cloisters 
of  S.  Lorenzo,  and  passing  round  the  church  into  Piazza 
Madonna,  you  enter  the  Capella  Medicea,  and,  ascending  the 
stairs  on  the  left,  find  again  on  the  left  the  new  sacristy, 
built  in  1 5 19  by  Michelangelo.  Lorenzo  lies  with  his 
murdered  brother  Giuliano,  who  fell  under  the  daggers  of  the 
Pazzi  on  that  Easter  morning  in  the  Duomo,  between  the 
two  splendid  and  terrible  tombs  of  his  successors,  under  an 
unfinished  monument  facing  the  altar ;  a  beautiful  Madonna 
and  Child,  an  unfinished  work  by  Michelangelo,  and  the  two 
Medici  Saints,  S.  Damian  by  Raffaello  da  Montelupo,  and  S. 
Cosmas  by  Montorsoli.  It  is  not,  however,  this  humble  and 
almost  nameless  grave  that  draws  us  to-day  to  the  Sagrestia 
Nuova,  but  the  monument  carved  by  Michelangelo  for  two 
lesser  and  later  Medici :  Giuliano,  Due  de  Nemours,  who  died 
in  1 5 16,  and  Lorenzo,  Due  d'Urbino,  who  died  in  15 19. 
When  Lorenzo  il  Magnifico  died  at  Careggi  in  April  1492,  he 
left  seven  children :  Giovanni,  who  became  Leo  x ;  Piero, 
who  succeeded  him  and  went  into  exile ;  Giuliano,  who 
returned;  Lucrezia,  who  married  Giacomo  Salviati,  and  was 
*  Even  politically,  too,  as  Guicciardini  tells  us. 


S.  LORENZO  247 

grandmother  of  Cosimo  i ;  Contessina,  who  married  Piero 
Ridolfi  ;  Maddalena,  who  married  Francesco  Cibo ;  and  Maria, 
whom  Michelangelo  is  said  to  have  loved.  Lorenzo's  suc- 
cessor, Piero,  did  not  long  retain  the  power  his  father  had 
left  him ;  he  was  vain  and  impetuous,  and,  trying  to  rule 
without  the  Signoria,  placed  Pisa  and  Livorno  in  the  hands 
of  Charles  viii  of  France,  who  was  on  his  carnival  way  to 
Naples.  Savonarola  chased  him  out,  and  sacked  the  treasures 
of  his  house.  He  died  in  exile.  It  was  his  brother  Giuliano 
who  returned,  Savonarola  being  executed  in  15 12.  Giuliano 
was  a  better  ruler  than  his  brother,  but  he  behaved  like 
a  despot  till  his  brother  Giovanni  became  Pope,  when  he 
resigned  the  government  of  Florence  to  his  nephew  Lorenzo, 
the  son  of  Piero,  and  while  he  became  Gonfaloniere  of  Rome 
and  Archbishop,  Lorenzo  became  Duke  of  Urbino  and  father 
of  Catherine  de'  Medici  of  France.  It  is  this  Giuliano  and 
Lorenzo  de  Medici  that  Michelangelo  has  immortalised  with 
an  everlasting  gesture  of  sorrow  and  contempt.  On  the  right 
is  the  tomb  of  Giuliano,  and  over  it  he  sits  for  ever  as  a 
general  of  the  Church ;  on  the  left  is  Lorenzo's  dust,  coffered 
in  imperishable  marble,  over  which  he  sits  plotting  for  ever. 
The  statues  that  Michelangelo  has  carved  there  have  been 
called  Night  and  Day,  Twilight  and  Dawn ;  but  indeed  these 
names,  as  I  have  said,  are  far  too  definite  for  them :  they  are 
just  a  gesture  of  despair,  of  despair  of  a  world  which  has 
come  to  nothing.  They  are  in  no  real  sense  of  the  word 
political,  but  rather  an  expression,  half  realised  after  all,  of 
some  immense  sadness,  some  terrible  regret,  which  has  fallen 
upon  the  soul  of  one  who  had  believed  in  righteousness  and 
freedom,  and  had  found  himself  deceived.  It  is  not  the 
house  of  Medici  that  there  sees  its  own  image  of  despair, 
but  rather  Florence,  which  had  been  content  that  such  things 
should  be.  Some  obscure  and  secret  sorrow  has  for  a  moment 
overwhelmed  the  soul  of  the  great  poet  in  thinking  of  Florence, 
of  the  world,  of  the  hearts  of  men,  and  as  though  tr)'ing  to 
explain  to  himself,  his  own  melancholy  and  indignation,  he 
has  carved  these  statues,  to  which  men  have  given  the  names 


248    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

of  the  most  tremendous  and  the  most  sweet  of  natural  things 
— Night  and  Day,  Twilight  and  Dawn ;  and  even  as  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel  Michelangelo  has  thought  only  of  Life, — of 
the  Creation  of  Man,  of  the  Judgment  of  the  World,  which 
is  really  the  Resurrection, — so  here  he  has  thought  only  of 
Death,  of  the  death  of  the  body,  of  the  soul,  and  of  the  wistful 
life  of  the  disembodied  spirit  that  wanders  disconsolate,  who 
knows  where  ? — that  sleeps  uneasily,  who  knows  how  long  ? 


XIX 

FLORENCE 

CHURCHES  NORTH  OF  ARNO :  OGNISSANTI— S.  TRI- 
NITA— SS.  APOSTOLI— S.  STEFANO— BADIA— S. 
PIERO— S.  AMBROGIO— S.  MARIA  MADDALENA 
DE'  PAZZI— ANNUNZIATA— OSPEDALE  DEGLI 
INNOCENTI— LO  SCALZO— S.  APOLLONIA— S. 
ONOFRIO— S.  SALVI 

TO  pass  through  Florence  for  the  most  part  by  the  old 
ways,  from  church  to  church,  is  too  often  like  visiting 
forgotten  shrines  in  a  museum.  Something  seems  to  have 
been  lost  in  these  quiet  places ;  it  is  but  rarely  after  all  that 
they  retain  anything  of  the  simplicity  which  once  made  them 
holy.  To  their  undoing,  they  have  been  found  in  possession 
of  some  beautiful  thing  which  may  be  shown  for  money,  and 
so  some  of  them  have  ceased  altogether  to  exist  as  churches  or 
chapels  or  convents ;  you  find  yourself  walking  through  them 
as  through  a  gallery,  and  if  you  should  so  far  forget  yourself 
as  to  uncover  your  head,  some  official  will  eagerly  nudge  you 
and  say,  "It  is  not  necessary  for  the  signore  to  bare  his  head : 
here  is  no  longer  a  church,  but  a  public  monument"  A 
public  monument !  But  indeed,  as  we  know,  the  Italian 
"public"  is  no  longer  capable  of  building  anything  that  is 
beautiful.  If  it  is  a  bridge  they  need,  it  is  not  such  a  one 
as  the  Trinitii  that  will  be  built,  but  some  hideous  structure 
of  iron,  as  in  Pisa,  Florence,  and  Rome.  If  it  is  a  monument 
they  wish  to  carve,  they  will  destroy  numberless  infinitely 
precious  things,  and  express  themselves  as  vulgarly  as  the 
Germans  could  do,   as  in  the   monument  of  Vittorio   Em- 

241) 


250    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

manuele  at  Rome,  which  is  founded  on  the  ruined  palaces 
of  nobles,  the  convents  of  the  poor.  If  it  is  a  Piazza  they 
must  make,  they  are  no  longer  capable  of  building  such  a 
place  as  Piazza  Signoria,  but  prefer  a  hideous  and  disgusting 
clearing,  such  as  Piazza  Vittorio  Emmanuele  in  Florence. 
How  often  have  I  sat  at  the  little  caf^  there  on  the  far  side 
of  the  square,  wondering  why  the  house  of  Savoy  should  have 
brought  this  vandalism  from  Switzerland.  Nor  is  this  strange 
monarchy  content  with  broken  promises  and  stolen  dowries ; 
in  its  grasping  barbarism  it  must  rename  the  most  famous 
and  splendid  ways  of  Italy  after  itself:  thus  the  Corso  of 
Rome  has  become  Corso  Umberto  Primo,  and  we  live  in 
daily  expectation  that  Piazza  Signoria  of  Florence  will  become 
Piazza  Vittorio  Emmanuele  ii.  If  that  has  not  yet  befallen, 
it  is  surely  an  oversight ;  the  Government  has  been  so  busy 
renaming  Roman  places — the  Villa  Borghese,  for  instance — 
that  Florence  has  so  far  nearly  escaped.  Not  altogether,  how- 
ever :  beyond  the  Carraja  bridge,  just  before  the  Pescaia  in 
the  Piazza  Manin,  is  the  suppressed  convent  (now  a  barracks) 
of  the  Humiliati,  that  democratic  brotherhood  which  improved 
the  manufacture  of  wool  almost  throughout  Italy.  What  has 
the  Venetian  Jew,  Daniel  Manin,  to  do  with  them  ?  Yet  he  is 
remembered  by  means  of  a  bad  statue,  while  the  Humiliati 
and  the  Franciscans  are  forgotten :  yet  for  sure  they  did 
more  for  Florence  than  he.  But  no  doubt  it  would  be  difficult 
to  remind  oneself  tactfully  of  those  one  has  robbed,  and  a 
Venetian  Jew  looks  more  in  place  before  a  desecrated  convent 
than  S.  Francis  would  do.  Like  the  rest  of  Italy,  Florence 
seems  always  to  forget  that  she  had  a  history  before  i860; 
yet  here  at  least  she  should  have  remembered  one  of  her  old 
heroes,  for  in  the  convent  garden  Giano  della  Bella,  who 
fought  at  Campaldino,  and  was  anti-clerical  too  and  hateful 
to  the  Pope,  the  hero  of  the  Ordinances  of  Justice,  used  to 
walk  with  his  friends.  Perisca  innanzi  la  citth,  say  I,  che 
tunte  opere  vie  si  sostengano.  By  this  let  even  Venetian 
Jews,  to  say  nothing  of  Switzer  princes,  know  how  they  are 
like  to  be  remembered  when  their  little  day  is  over. 


OGNISSAN  n 


OGNISSANTI  251 

It  was  in  1256  that  the  Humiliati  founded  here  in  Borgo 
Ognissanti  the  Church  of  S.  Caterina,  and  carved  their  arms, 
a  woolpack  fastened  with  ropes,  over  the  door.  Originally 
founded  by  certain  Lombard  exiles  in  Northern  Germany,  the 
Humiliati  were  at  first  at  any  rate  a  lay  brotherhood,  which 
had  learned  in  exile  the  craft  of  weaving  wool.  Such  wool 
as  was  to  be  had  in  Tuscany,  a  land  of  olives  and  vines, 
almost  without  pasture,  was  poor  enough,  and  it  seems  to 
have  been  only  after  the  advent  of  the  Humiliati  that  the 
great  Florentine  industry  began  to  assert  itself,  foreign  wools 
being  brought  in  a  raw  state  to  the  city  and  sold,  dressed  and 
woven  into  cloth,  in  all  the  cities  of  Europe  and  the  East 
This  brotherhood,  however,  in  1140  formed  itself  into  a 
Religious  Order  under  a  Bull  of  Innocent  iii,  and  though  from 
that  time  the  brethren  seem  no  longer  to  have  worked  at  their 
craft  themselves,  they  directed  the  work  of  laymen  whom  they 
enrolled  and  employed,  busying  themselves  for  the  most  part 
with  new  inventions  and  the  management  of  what  soon 
became  an  immense  business.  Their  fame  was  spread  all 
over  Italy,  for,  as  Villani  tells  us,^  *'  wherever  a  house  of  their 
Order  was  established,  the  wool-weaving  craft  immediately 
made  advance,"  so  that  in  1239  the  Commune  of  Florence 
invited  them  to  establish  a  house  near  the  city,  which  they 
did  in  S.  Donato  a  Torri,  which  was  given  them  by  the 
Signoria.  By  1250  we  read  that  the  Guild  Masters  were 
already  grumbling  at  their  distance  from  the  city,  so  that  they 
removed  to  S.  Lucia  sul  Prato,  under  promise  of  the  exemp- 
tion from  all  taxes;  and  in  1256  they  founded  a  church  and 
convent  in  Borgo  Ognissanti.  The  Church  of  S.  Lucia  sul 
Prato  still  stands,  but  the  Humiliati  were  robbed  of  it  in 
1547  by  Cosimo  i,  who,  strangely  enough,  had  taken  the  old 
convent  of  S.  Donato  a  Torri  from  the  friars  who  had  ac- 
quired it,  in  order  to  build  a  fortification,  and  now  wished 
to  give  them  the  Church  of  S.  Lucia  sul  Prato.  It  is  said 
that  the  friars  began  to  build  their  convent,  but  four  years 
later  abandoned  the  work,  removing  to  S.  Jacopo  on  the 
*  Villani,  History  of  Floretue,  London,  1905  :  p.  318. 


252    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

other  side  Amo.  However  this  may  be,  the  Franciscans 
certainly  succeeded  the  Humiliati  in  their  convent  in  Borgo 
Ognissanti  about  this  time,  and  in  1627  they  rebuilt  S. 
Caterina,  renaming  it  S.  Salvadore.  To-day  there  is  but 
little  worth  seeing  in  this  seventeenth-century  church, — a  St. 
Augustine  by  Botticelli,  a  St.  Jerome  and  two  large  frescoes 
by  Domenico  Ghirlandajo, — but  in  the  old  refectory  of  the 
convent,  which  has  now  become  a  barracks,  is  Domenico 
Ghirlandajo's  fresco  of  the  Last  Supper. 

Passing  from  Ognissanti  down  the  Borgo  to  Piazza  Ponte 
Carraja,  you  come  to  the  great  palace  built  by  Michelozzo  for 
the  Ricasoli  family :  it  is  now  the  Hotel  New  York.  Thence 
you  turn  into  Via  di  Parione  behind  the  palace,  where  at  No.  7 
you  pass  the  Palazzo  Corsini,  coming  at  last  into  Via  Toma- 
buoni,  where  at  the  comer  is  the  Church  of  S.  Trinita  facing 
the  Piazza. 

This  beautiful  and  very  ancient  church  stands  on  the  site 
of  an  oratory  of  S.  Maria  dello  Spasimo,  destroyed,  as  it  is 
said,  in  the  tenth  century.  It  was  built  by  the  monks  of 
Vallombrosa,  and  was  therefore  in  the  hands  of  Benedictines. 
Here,  in  the  Cappella  Sassetti,  Domenico  Ghirlandajo  has 
painted  the  Life  of  S.  Francis ;  but  it  is  not  with  his  common- 
place treatment,  often  irrelevant  enough,  of  a  subject  which 
Giotto  had  already  used  with  genius,  that  we  are  concerned, 
but  perhaps  with  the  fresco  above  the  altar,  and  certainly 
with  the  marvellous  portraits  of  Sassetti  and  Nera  Cosi  his 
wife  on  either  side.  Here  in  this  portrait  for  once  Ghirlan- 
dajo seems  to  have  escaped  from  the  limitations  of  his  clever- 
ness, and  to  have  really  expressed  himself  so  that  his  talent 
becomes  something  more  than  talent,  is  full  of  life  and  charm, 
and  only  just  fails  to  convince  us  of  his  genius. 

Many  another  delightful  or  surprising  thing  may  be 
found  in  the  old  church,  which  has  more  than  once  suffered 
from  restoration.  In  a  chapel  in  the  right  aisle  Lorenzo 
Monaco  has  painted  the  Annunciation,  while  close  by  you 
may  see  a  beautiful  altar  by  Benedetto  da  Rovezzano.  Over 
the   high  altar  is   the  crucifix  which  bowed  to  S.  Giovanni 


SS.  APOSTOLI  253 

Gualberto,  who  forbore  to  slay  his  brother's  murderer;  but 
the  chief  treasure  of  the  church  is  the  tomb  in  the  left 
tiansept  of  Benozzo  Federighi,  Bishop  of  Fiesole,  by  Luca 
della  Robbia.  It  was  in  the  year  1450  that  Luca  finished  his 
most  perfect  work  in  marble — begun  and  finished,  as  it  is 
said,  within  the  year — the  tomb  of  Bishop  Federighi.  And 
here,  as  one  might  almost  expect,  remembering  his  happy 
expressive  art  in  many  a  terra-cotta  up  and  down  in  Italy,  he 
has  thought  of  death  almost  with  cheerfulness,  not  as  oblivion, 
but  as  just  sleep  after  labour.  Amid  a  profusion  of  natural 
things — fruits,  garlands,  grapes — the  old  man  lies  half  turned 
towards  us,  at  rest  at  last.  Behind  him  Luca  has  carved 
a  Piet^l,  and  beneath  two  angels  unfold  the  name  of  the  dead 
man.  The  tomb  was  removed  hither  from  S.  Francesco  di 
Paolo. 

Passing  now  under  the  Column  of  Trinitk  across  the  Piazza 
between  the  two  palaces,  Bartolini  Salimbeni  and  Buondel- 
monte  on  the  left,  and  Palazzo  Spini  on  the  right,  you 
come  into  Borgo  Santi  Apostoli,  where,  facing  the  Piazetta 
del  Limbo,  is  the  little  church  de'  Santissimi  Apostoli, 
which,  if  we  may  believe  the  inscription  on  the  facade,  was 
founded  by  Charlemagne  and  consecrated  by  Turpin  before 
Roland  and  Oliver.  However  that  may  be,  it  is,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Baptistery,  the  oldest  church  on  this  side 
Amo,  and  already  existed  outside  the  first  walls  of  the  city. 
Within  the  church  is  beautiful,  and  indeed  Brunellesco  is 
reported  by  Vasari  to  have  taken  it  as  a  model  for  S.  Lorenzo 
and  S.  Spirito.  In  the  sacristy  lies  the  stone  which  Mad 
Pazzi  brought  from  Jerusalem,  and  from  which  the  Easter 
fire  is  still  struck  in  the  Duomo  ;  while  in  the  chapel  to  the 
left  of  the  high  altar  is  a  beautiful  Tabernacle  by  the  della 
Robbia,  and  a  monument  to  Otto  Altoviti  by  Benedetto  da 
Rovezzano.  The  Altoviti  are  buried  here,  and  their  palace, 
which  Benedetto  built  for  them,  is  just  without  to  the  south. 

This  Borgo  SS.  Apostoli  and  the  Via  Lambertesca  which 
continues  it  are  indeed  streets  of  old  palaces  and  towers. 
Here  the  Buondelmonti  lived,  and  the  Torre  de'  Girolami, 


254    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

where  S.  Zanobi  is  said  to  have  dwelt,  still  stands,  while 
Via  Lambertesca  is  full  of  remembrance  of  the  lesser  guilds. 
Borgo  SS.  Apostoli  passes  into  Via  Lambertesca  at  the  corner 
of  Por.  S.  Maria,  where  of  old  the  great  gate  of  St.  Mary  stood 
in  the  first  walls,  and  the  Amidei  had  their  towers.  It  must 
have  been  just  here  the  Statue  of  Mars  was  set,  under  the 
shadow  of  which  Buondelmonte  was  murdered  so  brutally; 
and  thus,  as  Bandello  tells  us,  following  Villani,  began  the 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline  factions  in  Florence. 

Just  out  of  Via  Lambertesca,  on  the  left,  is  the  little 
Church  of  S.  Stefano  and  S.  Cecilia — S.  Cecilia  only  since 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  that  church  was 
destroyed  in  Piazza  Signoria;  but  S.  Stefano,  ad portam  ferram^ 
since  the  thirteenth  century  at  any  rate.  This  church  seems 
to  have  been  confused  by  many  with  the  little  Santo  Stefano, 
still,  I  think,  a  parish  church,  though  now  incorporated  with 
the  abbey  buildings  of  the  Badia.  You  pass  out  of  Via 
Lambertesca  by  Via  de'  Lanzi,  coming  thus  into  Piazza 
Signoria;  then,  passing  Palazzo  Uguccione,  you  take  Via 
Condotta  to  the  right,  and  thus  come  into  Via  del  Proconsolo 
at  the  Abbey  gate. 

Here  in  this  quiet  Benedictine  house  one  seems  really 
to  be  back  in  an  older  world,  to  have  left  the  noise  and 
confusion  of  to-day  far  behind,  and  in  order  and  in  quiet  to 
have  found  again  the  beautiful  things  that  are  from  of  old. 
The  Badia,  dedicated  to  S.  Maria  Assunta,  was  founded  in 
978  by  Countess  Willa,  the  mother  of  Ugo  of  Tuscany,^  and 
was  rebuilt  in  1285  by  Amolfo  di  Cambio.  The  present 
building  is,  however,  almost  entirely  a  work  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  though  the  beautiful  tower  was  built  in  1328.  Here 
still,  however,  in  spite  of  rebuilding,  you  may  see  the  tomb  of 
the  Great  Marquis  by  Mino  da  Fiesole.     •*  It  was  erected," 

'  The  best  account  of  this  abbey  I  ever  read  in  English  is  contained  in 
a  book  full  of  similar  good  things,  good  English,  and  good  pictures,  called 
The  Old  Road  through  Fratue  to  Florence,  written  by  H.  W.  Nevinson 
and  Montgomery  Carmichael,  and  illustrated  by  Hallam  Murray  (Murray, 
London,  1904). 


VIA    POK.     S.    MAKIA 


THE  BADIA  255 

says  Mr.  Carmichael,  "at  the  expense  of  the  monks,  not 
of  the  Signoria.  .  .  .  Ugo  died  in  1006,  on  the  Feast  of 
St.  Thomas  the  Apostle,  December  21,  and  every  year  on 
that  date  a  solemn  requiem  for  the  repose  of  his  soul  is 
celebrated  in  the  Abbey  Church.  His  helmet  and  breast- 
plate are  always  laid  upon  the  catafalque.  In  times  past — 
down  to  1859,  I  think — a  young  Florentine  used  on  this 
occasion  to  deliver  a  panegyric  on  the  Great  Prince.  I  have 
heard  .  .  .  that  the  mass  is  no  longer  celebrated.  That  is 
not  so ;  but  since  the  city  has  ceased  to  care  about  it,  it 
takes  place  quietly  at  seven  in  the  morning,  instead  of  with 
some  pomp  at  eleven.  Then  again,  it  is  said  that  the  monks 
have  allowed  the  panegyric  to  drop.  That  too  is  not  the 
case ;  it  was  not  they  but  the  Florentines  who  were  pledged 
to  this  pious  office,  and  it  is  the  laity  alone  who  have  allowed 
it  to  fall  into  desuetude." 

Even  here  we  cannot,  however,  escape  destruction  and 
forgetfulness.  The  monastery  has  been  turned  into  com- 
munal schools  and  police  courts;  the  abbot  has  become  a 
parish  priest,  and  his  abbey  has  been  taken  from  him ;  there 
are  but  four  monks  left.  But  in  the  steadfast,  unforgetful 
eyes  of  that  Church  which  has  already  outlived  a  thousand 
dynasties,  and  beside  which  every  Government  in  the  world  is 
but  a  thing  of  yesterday,  the  Abbot  of  S.  Maria  is  abbot  still, 
and  no  parish  priest  at  all.  It  is  not,  however,  such  things 
as  this  that  will  astonish  the  English  or  American  stranger, 
whose  pathetic  faith  in  "  progress  "  is  the  one  touching  thing 
about  him.  He  has  come  here  not  to  think  of  deprived 
Benedictines,  or  to  stand  by  the  tomb  of  Ugo,  of  whom  he 
never  heard,  but  to  see  the  masterpiece  of  Filippino  Lippi, 
the  Madonna  and  St.  Bernard,  with  which  a  thousand  photo- 
graphs have  already  made  him  familiar.  Painted  in  1450, 
when  Filippino  was  still,  as  we  may  suppose,  under  the 
influence  of  Botticelli,  it  was  given  by  Piero  del  Pugliese  to 
a  church  outside  Porta  Romana,  and  was  removed  here  in 
1529  during  the  siege. 

Passing  down  Via  della  Vigna  Vecchia,  you  come  at  last  to 


256    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  little  Church  of  S.  Simone,  which  the  monks  of  the  Badia 
built  about  1202,  in  their  vineyards  then,  and  just  within  the 
second  walls.  At  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century  it 
became  a  parish  church,  and  was  only  taken  from  them  at 
the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Within,  there  is  an 
early  picture  of  Madonna,  which  comes  from  the  Church  of 
S.  Piero  Maggiore,  now  destroyed.  You  may  reach  the 
Piazza  di  S.  Piero  (for  it  still  bears  that  name)  if  you  turn 
into  Via  di  Mercatino.  Here  the  bishops  of  Florence  were 
of  old  welcomed  to  the  city  and  installed  in  the  See.  Thither 
came  all  the  clergy  of  the  diocese  to  take  part  in  a  strange 
and  beautiful  ceremony.  Attached  to  the  church  was  a  Bene- 
dictine convent,  whose  abbess  seems  to  have  represented  the 
diocese  of  Florence.  There  in  S.  Piero  the  Archbishop 
came  to  wed  her,  and  thus  became  the  guardian  of  the  city. 
The  church  is  destroyed  now,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  all  the 
monks  and  nuns  have  departed ;  the  Government  has  stolen 
their  dowries  and  thrust  them  into  the  streets.  Well  might 
the  child,  passing  S.  Felice,  cry  before  this  came  to  pass, 
O  bella  Libertk !  But  S.  Piero  was  memorable  for  other 
reasons  too  beside  this  mystic  marriage.  There  lay  Luca 
della  Robbia,  Lorenzo  di  Credi,  Mariotto  Albertinelli,  Piero 
di  Cosimo :  where  is  their  dust  to-day  ?  As  we  look  at  their 
work  in  the  galleries  and  churches,  who  cares  what  has 
happened  to  them,  or  whether  such  graves  as  theirs  are  rifled 
or  no  ?  Yet  not  one  of  them  but  has  done  more  for  Italy  than 
Vittorio  Emmanuele;  not  one  of  them,  O  Italia  Nuova,  but 
is  to-day  filling  your  pockets  with  gold,  while  he  is  nothing 
in  the  Pantheon ;  yet  their  graves  are  rifled  and  forgotten, 
and  him  you  have  placed  on  the  Capitol. 

It  is  to  another  Benedictine  convent  you  come  down  Via 
Pietrapiana,  past  Borgo  Allegri,  whence  the  Florentines  say 
they  bore  Cimabue's  Madonna  in  triumph  to  S.  Maria  Novella. 
It  is  a  pity,  truly,  that  it  is  Duccio's  picture  that  is  in  the 
Rucellai  Chapel  to-day,  and  that  the  name  of  the  Borgo  does 
not  come  from  that  rejoicing,  but  from  the  Allegri  family, 
who  here  had  their  towers.     Yet  here  Cimabue  lived,  and 


S.  M.  MADDELENA  DE'  PAZZI  257 

Ghiberti  and  Antonio  RosselHno.     Who  knows  what  beauty 
has  here  passed  by  ? 

The  Benedictine  Church  and  Convent  at  end  of  Via 
Pietrapiana  is  dedicated  to  S.  Ambrogio.  It  was  the  first 
convent  of  nuns  built  in  Florence,  and  dates  certainly  from 
the  eleventh  century.  Like  the  rest,  it  has  been  suppressed, 
and  indeed  destroyed.  To-day  it  is  nothing,  having  suffered 
restoration,  beside  the  other  violations.  Within,  Verrocchio 
was  buried,  and  in  the  Cappella  del  Miracolo,  where  in  the 
thirteenth  century  a  priest  found  the  chalice  stained  with 
Christ's  blood,  is  the  beautiful  altar  by  Mino  da  Fiesole. 
The  church  is  full  of  old  frescoes  by  Cosimo  Rosselli,  Raffael- 
lino  del  Garbo,  and  such,  and  is  worth  a  visit,  if  only  for  the 
work  of  Mino  and  the  S.  Sebastian  of  Leonardo  del  Tasso. 

It  is  to  another  desecrated  Benedictine  convent  you  come 
when,  passing  through  Via  dei  Pilastrati  and  turning  into 
Via  Farina,  you  come  at  last  in  Via  della  Colonna  to 
S.  Maria  Maddalena  de'  Pazzi.  This  too  is  now  a  barracks 
and  a  school.  It  was  not,  however,  the  nuns  who  com- 
missioned Perugino  to  paint  for  them  his  masterpiece,  the 
Crucifixion,  in  the  refectory,  but  some  Cistercian  monks 
who  had  acquired  the  convent  in  the  thirteenth  century. 
Perugino  was  painting  there  in  1496.  More  than  a  hundred 
years  later.  Pope  Urban  viii,  who  had  some  nieces  in  the 
Carmelite  Convent  on  the  other  side  Arno,  persuaded  the 
monks  to  exchange  their  home  for  the  Carmine.  S.  Maria 
Maddalena  de'  Pazzi,  who  was  born  Lucrezia,  had  died  in 
1607,  and  later  been  canonised,  so  that  when  the  nuns 
moved  here  they  renamed  the  place  after  her.  The  body  of 
S.  Maria  Maddalena  de'  Pazzi,  however,  no  longer  lies  in  this 
desecrated  convent,  for  the  little  nuns  have  carried  it  away 
to  their  new  home  in  Piazza  Savonarola.  There  in  that  place, 
always  so  full  of  children,  certain  Florentine  ladies  have 
nobly  built  a  little  church  and  quiet  house,  where  those 
who  but  for  them  might  have  been  in  the  street  may  still 
innocently  pray  to  God. 

There,  in    1496,  as    I   have  said,   Perugino  finished  the 


258    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

fresco  of  the  Crucifixion  that  he  had  b^un  some  years 
before  in  the  chapter-house  of  the  old  S.  Maria  Maddalena. 
In  almost  perfect  preservation  still,  this  fresco  on  the  wall  of 
that  quiet  and  empty  room  is  perhaps  the  most  perfect 
expression  of  the  art  of  Perugino  —  those  dreams  of  the 
country  and  of  certain  ideal  people  he  has  seen  there ;  Jesus 
and  His  disciples,  Madonna  and  Mary  Magdalen,  sweet, 
smiling,  and  tearful  ghosts  passing  in  the  sunshine,  less  real 
than  the  hills,  all  perhaps  that  the  world  was  able  to  bear 
by  way  of  remembrance  of  those  it  had  worshipped  once, 
but  was  beginning  to  forget.  And  here  at  last,  in  this 
fresco,  the  landscape  has  really  become  of  more  importance 
than  the  people,  who  breathe  there  so  languidly.  The 
Crucifixion  has  found  something  of  the  expressiveness,  the 
unction  of  a  Christian  hymn,  something  of  the  quiet  beauty 
of  the  Mass  that  was  composed  to  remind  us  of  it ;  already 
it  has  passed  away  from  reality,  is  indeed  merely  a  memory 
in  which  the  artist  has  seen  something  less  and  something 
more  than  the  truth. 

Divided  into  three  compartments,  we  see  through  the 
beautiful  round  arches  of  some  magic  casement,  as  it  were, 
the  valleys  and  hills  of  Italy,  the  delicate  trees,  the  rivers 
and  the  sky  of  a  country  that  is  holy,  which  man  has  taken 
particularly  to  himself.  And  then,  as  though  summoned  back 
from  forgetfulness  by  the  humanism  of  that  landscape  where 
the  toil  and  endeavour  of  mankind  is  so  visible  in  the  little 
city  far  away,  the  cultured  garden  of  the  world,  a  dream 
of  the  Crucifixion  comes  to  us,  a  vision  of  all  that  man  has 
suffered  for  man  summed  up,  as  it  were,  naturally  enough  by 
that  supreme  sacrifice  of  love ;  and  we  see  not  an  agonised 
Christ  or  the  brutality  of  the  priests  and  the  soldiers,  but 
Jesus,  who  loved  us,  hanging  on  the  Cross,  with  Mary 
Magdalen  kneeling  at  his  feet,  and  on  the  one  side  Madonna 
and  St.  Bernard,  and  on  the  other  St.  John  and  St.  Benedict 
And  though,  in  a  sort  of  symbolism,  Perugino  has  placed 
above  the  Cross  the  sun  and  the  moon  eclipsed,  the  whole 
world  is  full  of  the  serene  and  perfect  light  of  late  afternoon, 


SS.  ANNUNZIATA  259 

and  presently  we  know  that  vision  of  the  Crucifixion  will 
fade  away,  and  there  will  be  left  to  us  only  that  which  we 
really  know,  and  have  heard  and  seen,  the  valleys  and  the 
hills,  the  earth  from  which  we  are  sprung. 

There  are  but  six  figures  in  the  whole  picture,  and  it  is 
just  this  spaciousness,  perhaps,  earth  and  sky  counting  for  so 
much,  that  makes  this  work  so  delightful.  For  it  is  not 
from  the  figures  at  all  that  we  receive  the  profoundly 
religious  impression  that  this  picture  makes  upon  all  who 
look  unhurriedly  upon  it ;  but  from  the  earth  and  sky,  where 
in  the  infinite  clear  space  God  dwells,  no  longer  hanging  upon 
a  Cross  tortured  by  men  who  have  unthinkably  made  so 
terrible  a  mistake,  but  joyful  in  His  heaven,  moving  in  every 
living  thing  He  has  made ;  visible  only  in  the  invisible  wind 
that  passes  over  the  streams  suddenly  at  evening,  or  subtly 
makes  musical  the  trees  at  dawn,  walking  as  of  old  in  His 
garden,  where  one  day  maybe  we  shall  meet  Him  face  to 
face. 

Turning  down  Via  di  Pinti  to  the  left,  and  then  to  the 
right  along  Via  Alfani,  we  pass  another  desecrated  monastery 
in  S.  Maria  degli  Angioli,  once  a  famous  house  of  the  monks 
of  Camaldoli.  This  monastery  has  suffered  many  violations, 
and  is  scarcely  worth  a  visit,  perhaps,  unless  it  be  to  see  the 
fresco  of  Andrea  del  Castagno  in  the  cloister,  and  to  remind 
ourselves  that  here,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  Don  Ambrogio 
Traversari  used  to  lecture  in  the  humanities,  a  cynical 
remembrance  enough  to-day. 

If  we  take  the  second  street  to  the  right.  Via  de'  Servi,  we 
shall  come  at  once  into  the  beautiful  Piazza  della  Santissima 
Annunziata,  Before  us  is  the  desecrated  convent  of  the 
Servites,  now  turned  into  a  school,  and  the  Church  of  SS. 
Annunziata  itself,  now  the  most  fashionable  church  in 
Florence.  On  the  left  and  right  are  the  beautiful  arcades  of 
Brunellesco,  decorated  by  the  della  Robbia ;  the  building  on 
the  left  is  now  used  for  private  houses,  that  on  the  right  is 
the  Ospedale  degli  Innocenti.  The  equestrian  statue  was 
made  by  Giovanni  da  Bologna,  and  represents  Ferdinando  i. 


26o    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

The  Order  of  Servites,  whose  church  and  convent  are  before 
us,  was  originally  founded  by  seven  Florentines  of  the 
Laudesi,  that  Compagnia  di  S.  Michele  in  Orto  which  built 
Madonna  a  shrine  by  the  art  of  Orcagna  in  Or  S.  Michele,  as 
we  have  seen.  "  I  Servi  di  Maria  "  they  called  themselves,  and, 
determined  to  quit  a  worldly  life,  they  retired  to  a  little  house 
where  now  S.  Croce  stands ;  and  later,  finding  that  too  near  the 
city,  went  over  the  hills  of  Fiesole  towards  Pratolino,  founding 
a  hermitage  on  Monte  Senario.  And  I,  who  have  heard 
their  bells  from  afar  at  sunset,  why  should  I  be  sorry  that 
they  are  no  longer  in  the  city.  Well,  on  Monte  Senario,  be 
sure,  they  lived  hardly  enough  on  the  charity  of  Florence,  so 
that  at  last  they  built  a  little  rest-house  just  without  the  city, 
where  SS.  Annunziata  stands  to-day.  But  in  those  days 
Florence  was  full  of  splendour  and  life ;  it  had  no  fear  of  the 
Orders,  and  even  loved  them,  giving  alms.  Presently  the 
Servi  di  Maria  were  able  to  build  not  a  rest-house  only,  but 
a  church  and  a  convent,  and  they  then  who  served  Madonna 
were  not  forgotten  by  her,  for  did  she  not  give  them  miracul- 
ously a  picture  of  her  Annunciation,  so  beautiful  and  full  of 
grace  that  all  the  city  flocked  to  see  it  ?  Thus  it  used  to  be. 
To-day,  as  I  have  said,  SS.  Annunziata  is  the  fashionable 
church  of  Florence.  The  ladies  go  in  to  hear  Mass ;  the 
gentlemen  lounge  in  the  cloister  and  await  them.  It  is  not 
quite  our  way  in  England,  but  then  the  sun  is  not  so  kind  to 
us.  It  is  true  that  on  any  spring  morning  you  may  see  the 
cloister  filled  with  laughing  lilies  to  be  laid  at  Madonna's  feet ; 
but  who  knows  if  she  be  not  fled  away  with  her  Servi  to 
Monte  Senario  ?  Certainly  those  bells  were  passing  glad  and 
very  sweet,  and  they  were  ringing,  too,  the  Angelus. 

However  that  may  be,  a  committee,  we  are  told,  of  which 
Queen  Margherite  is  patron  here,  "  renders  a  programme  of 
sacred  music,  chiefly  Masses  from  the  ancient  masters, 
admirably  executed."  It  is  comforting  to  our  English  notions 
to  know  that  "The  subscribers  have  the  right  to  a  private 
seat  in  the  choir,  and  the  best  society  of  Florence  is  to  be 
met  there." 


OSPEDALE  DEGLl  INNOCENTl  261 

And  then,  here  are  frescoes  by  Cosimo  Rosselli,  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  under  glass  too,  a  Nativity  of  Christ  by  Alessio 
Baldovinetti,  not  under  glass,  which  seems  unfair;  and  what 
if  they  be  the  finest  work  of  Andrea,  since  you  cannot  see 
them.  Within,  the  church  is  spoiled  and  very  ugly.  On  the 
left  is  the  shrine  of  Madonna,  carved  by  Michelozzo,  to  the 
order  of  Piero  de'  Medici,  decorated  with  all  the  spoils  of 
the  Grand  Dukes.     Ah  no,  be  sure  Madonna  is  fled  away  ! 

Passing  out  of  the  north  transept,  you  come  into  the 
cloisters.  Here  is,  I  think,  Andrea's  best  work,  the  Madonna 
del  Sacco,  and  the  tomb  of  a  French  knight  slain  at 
Campaldino. 

Passing  out  of  the  SS.  Annunziata  into  S.  Maria  degli 
Innocenti,  we  come  in  the  great  altar  piece  to  a  beautiful 
picture  by  Domenico  Ghirlandajo,  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi, 
painted  in  1488.  Though  scarcely  so  lovely  as  the  Adoration 
of  the  Shepherds  in  the  Accademia,  perhaps  spoiled  a  little  by 
over  cleaning  and  restoration,  it  is  one  of  the  most  simple  and 
serene  pictures  in  Florence.  The  predella  to  this  picture 
is  in  the  Ospedale ;  it  represents  the  Marriage  of  the  Virgin, 
the  Presentation  in  the  Temple,  the  Baptism  and  Entomb- 
ment of  Our  Lord.  There,  too,  is  a  replica  of  the  Madonna 
of  Lippo  Lippi  in  the  Uffizi. 

The  Ospedale  degli  Innocenti  was  founded  in  1421  by 
the  Republic,  urged  thereto  by  that  Leonardo  Bruni  who  is 
buried  in  S.  Croce  in  the  tomb  by  Rossellino.  It  appears 
to  have  been  already  open  in  1450,  and  was  apparently 
under  the  government  of  the  Guild  of  Silk,  for  their  arms  are 
just  by  the  door.  It  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  of  its 
kind  in  Europe;  originally  meant  for  the  reception  of 
illegitimate  children — Leonardo  da  Vinci,  for  instance — it  is 
to-day  ready  to  receive  any  poor  little  soul  who  has  come 
unwanted  into  the  world ;  it  cares  for  more  than  a  thousand 
of  such  every  year. 

Passing  out  of  Piazza  degli  SS.  Annunziata  through  Via 
di  Sapienza  into  Piazza  di  S.  Marco,  we  pass  the  desecrated 
convent  of  the  Dominicans,  where  Savonarola,  Fra  Antonino, 


262    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

and  Fra  Angelico  lived,  now  a  museum  on  the  right;  and 
passing  to  the  right  into  Via  Cavour,  come  at  No.  69  to 
the  Chiostro  dello  Scalzo.  This  is  a  cloister  belonging  to 
the  Brotherhood  of  St.  John,  which  was  suppressed  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  The  Brotherhood  of  St.  John  seems  to 
have  come  about  in  this  way.  When  Frate  Elias,  who 
succeeded  S.  Francesco  as  Minister  of  the  Franciscan  Order, 
began  to  rule  after  his  own  fashion,  the  Order  was  divided 
into  two  parts,  consisting  of  those  who  followed  the  Rule  and 
those  who  did  not.  The  first  were  called  Observants,  the 
second  Conventuals.  The  Osservanti,  or  Observants,  remained 
poor,  and  observed  all  the  fasts ;  perhaps  their  greatest, 
certainly  their  most  widely  known  Vicar  -  General  was  S. 
Bernardino  of  Siena.  In  France  the  Osservanti  were  known 
as  the  Recollects,  and  the  reform  there  having  been  intro- 
duced by  John  de  la  Puebla,  a  Spaniard,  about  1484,  these 
brethren  were  known  as  the  Brotherhood  of  John,  or  Discalced 
Friars.  In  Italy  they  were  called  Riformati.  All  this  con- 
fusion is  now  at  an  end,  for  Leo  xiii,  in  the  Constitution 
"Felicitate  quadam,"  in  1897  joined  all  the  Observants  into 
one  family,  giving  them  again  the  most  ancient  and  beautiful 
of  their  names,  the  Friars  Minor. 

Here,  where  these  little  poor  men  begged  or  prayed,  Andrea 
del  Sarto  was  appointed  to  paint  in  grisaille  scenes  from  the 
life  of  John  the  Baptist.  They  have  been  much  injured  by 
damp,  and  in  fact  are  not  altogether  Andrea's  work. 

Returning  down  Via  Cavour,  if  we  turn  into  Via  Ventisette 
Aprile  we  come  to  two  more  desecrated  convents, — that  of 
S.  Caterina,  now  the  Commando  Militare,  and  facing  it,  S. 
Appolonia,  now  a  magazine  for  military  stores. 

Here,  in  the  refectory  of  the  latter  convent,  where 
Michelangelo  is  said  to  have  had  a  niece,  and  for  this  cause 
to  have  built  the  nuns  a  door,  is  the  fresco  of  the  Last 
Supper  by  Andrea  del  Castagno ;  while  on  the  walls  are  some 
portraits,  brought  here  from  the  Bargello,  of  Farinata  degli 
Uberti,  Niccolo  Acciaiuoli,  and  others. 

In  another  suppressed  convent,  S.  Onofrio  in  Via  Faenza, 


S.  SALVI  263 

not  far  away  (turn  to  the  left  down  Via  di  S.  Reparata,  and 
then  to  the  right  into  Via  Guelfa),  is  another  Last  Supper, 
supposed  to  be  the  work  of  a  pupil  of  Perugino, — Morelli  says 
Giannicolo  Manni,  who  painted  the  miracle  picture  of 
Madonna  in  the  Duomo  of  Perugia. 

Another  picture  of  the  Last  Supper — this  by  Andrea  del 
Sarto — may  be  found  in  another  desecrated  monastery,  S. 
Salvi,  just  without  the  Barriera  towards  Settignano.  It  was 
in  front  of  this  monastery  that  Corso  Donati  was  killed  in 
1307.  He  was  buried  by  the  monks  in  the  church,  and 
four  years  later  his  body  was  borne  away  to  Florence  by  his 
family.  This  monastery  is  now  turned  into  houses,  and  the 
refectory  with  the  Andrea  del  Sarto  is  become  a  national 
monument.  Like  many  another  desecrated  church,  convent, 
or  religious  house,  the  Government,  as  at  S.  Marco,  Chiostro 
dello  Scalzo,  and  S.  Onofrio,  charges  you  twenty-five  centesimi 
to  see  their  stolen  goods. 


XX 

FLORENCE 

OLTR'ARNO 

THE  Sesto  Oltr'amo,  the  Quartiere  di  S.  Spirito  as  it  was 
called  later,  was  never  really  part  of  the  city,  as  it 
were,  but  rather  a  suburb  surrounded,  as  Florence  itself  was, 
by  walls  and  river.  The  home  for  the  most  part  of  the  poor, 
though  by  no  means  without  the  towers  and  palaces  of  the 
nobles,  it  seems  always  to  have  lent  itself  readily  enough  to 
the  hatching  of  any  plot  against  the  Government  of  the  day. 
Here  in  1343  the  nobles  made  their  last  stand,  here  the 
signal  was  given  for  the  Ciompi  rising,  and  here  Luca  Pitti 
built  his  palace  to  outdo  the  Medici.  If  you  cross  Amo  by 
the  beautiful  bridge  of  S.  Trinitii,  the  first  street  to  your  left 
will  be  Borgo  S.  Jacopo,  the  first  palace  that  of  the  Frescobaldi, 
whom  the  Duke  of  Athens  brought  into  Florence  after  their 
exile.  This  palace,  as  well  as  the  Church  of  S.  Jacopo  close 
by,  where  Giano  della  Bella's  death  was  plotted,  were  given 
in  1529  to  the  Franciscans  of  S.  Salvatore,  whose  convent 
had  suffered  in  the  siege.  S.  Jacopo,  which  still  retains  a 
fine  romanesque  arcade,  was  originally  a  foundation  of  the 
eleventh  century.  It  seems  to  have  been  entirely  rebuilt  for 
the  friars  and  the  palace  turned  into  a  convent  in  1580,  and 
again  to  have  suffered  restoration  in  1790.  Close  by  is  a 
group  of  old  towers,  still  picturesque  and  splendid.  Turning 
thence  back  into  Via  Maggio,  and  passing  along  Via  S.  Spirito 
and  Via  S.  Frediano,  you  come  at  last  on  the  left  into  Piazza 
del  Carmine,  before  the  Great  Church  of  that  name.     The 

264 


THE  CARxMINE  26s 

church  of  the  Carmine  and  the  monastery  now  suppressed  of 
the  Carmelites  across  Amo  was  originally  built  in  1268,  with 
the  help  of  the  great  families  whose  homes  were  in  this  part 
of  the  city, — the  Soderini,  the  Nerli,  the  Serragli ;  it  remained 
unfinished  for  more  than  two  centuries,  and  in  1771  it  was 
unhappily  almost  wholly  destroyed  by  fire,  only  the  sacristy 
and  the  Brancacci  Chapel  escaping.  Famous  now  because 
there  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  lived,  and  there  Masolino  and  Masaccio 
painted,  it  is  in  itself  one  of  the  most  meretricious  and  worth- 
less buildings  of  the  eighteenth  century,  full  of  every  sort  of 
flamboyant  ornament  and  insincere,  uncalled-for  decoration ; 
and  yet,  in  spite  of  every  vulgarity,  how  spacious  it  is,  as  though 
even  in  that  evil  hour  the  Latin  genius  could  not  wholly  forget  its 
delight  in  space  and  light.  It  is  then  really  only  the  Brancacci 
Chapel  in  the  south  transept  that  has  any  interest  for  us,  since 
there,  better  than  anywhere  else,  we  may  see  the  work  of  two 
of  the  greatest  masters  of  the  first  years  of  the  Quattrocento. 

Masolino,  according  to  Mr.  Berenson,  was  born  in  1384, 
and  died  after  1423,  while  his  pupil  Masaccio  was  bom  in 
1 40 1,  and  died,  one  of  the  youngest  of  Florentine  painters,  in 
1428.  Here  in  the  Brancacci  Chapel  it  might  seem  difficult 
to  decide  what  may  be  the  work  of  Masolino  and  what  of  his 
pupil,  and  indeed  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle  have  denied  that 
Masolino  worked  here  at  all.  Later  criticism,  however, 
interested  in  work  that  marks  a  revolution  in  Tuscan  painting, 
has  made  it  plain  that  certain  frescoes  here  are  undoubtedly 
from  his  hand,  and  Mr.  Berenson  gives  him  certainly  the  Fall 
of  Adam,  the  Raising  of  Tabitha,  and  the  Miracle  at  the 
Golden  Gate,  above  on  the  right,  as  well  as  the  Preaching  of 
St.  Peter,  above  to  the  left  on  the  altar  wall.  Masaccio's 
work  is  more  numerous,  consisting  of  the  Expulsion  from  the 
Temple  and  the  Payment  of  the  Tribute,  above  on  the  right, 
part  of  the  fresco  below  the  last ;  St.  Peter  Baptizing,  above 
to  the  left  on  the  altar  wall,  as  well  as  the  two  frescoes, 
St.  Peter  and  St.  John  healing  the  Sick,  and  St.  Peter  and  St. 
John  giving  Alms,  below  on  either  side  of  the  altar.  The  rest 
of  the  frescoes,  the  St.  Paul  visiting  St.  Peter  in  Prison,  below 


266    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

on  the  left,  part  of  the  fresco  next  to  it,  the  Liberation  of  St. 
Peter  opposite,  and  the  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  before  Nero,  and 
the  Crucifixion  of  St.  Peter,  below  on  the  right,  are  the  work 
of  Filippino  Lippi. 

Masolino  da  Panicale  of  Valdelsa  was,  according  to  Vasari, 
a  pupil  of  Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  and  had  been  in  his  younger 
days  a  very  good  goldsmith.  He  was  the  best  among  those 
who  helped  Ghiberti  in  the  labours  of  the  doors  of  S.  Giovanni, 
but  when  about  nineteen  years  of  age  he  seems  to  have 
devoted  himself  to  painting,  forsaking  the  art  of  the  goldsmith, 
and  placing  himself  under  Gherardo  della  Stamina,  the  first 
master  of  his  day.  He  is  said  to  have  gone  to  Rome,  and 
some  works  of  his  in  S.  Clemente  would  seem  to  prove  this 
story;  but  finding  his  health  suffer  from  the  air  of  the 
Eternal  City,  he  returned  to  Florence,  and  began  to  paint  here 
in  the  Church  of  S.  Maria  del  Carmine,  the  figure  of  S.  Piero 
beside  the  "  Chapel  of  the  Crucifixion,"  which  was  destroyed 
in  the  fire  of  1 7  7 1 .  This  S.  Piero,  Vasari  tells  us,  was  greatly 
commended  by  the  painters  of  the  time,  and  brought  Masolino 
the  commission  for  painting  the  Chapel  of  the  Brancacci  family 
in  the  same  church.  Among  the  rest  mentioned  by  Vasari, 
he  speaks  of  the  Four  Evangelists  on  the  roof  here,  which  have 
now  been  ruined  by  over-painting  and  restoration.  A  man  of 
an  admirable  genius,  his  study  and  fatigues,  Vasari  tells  us,  so 
weakened  him  that  he  was  always  ailing,  till  he  died  at  the  age 
of  thirty-seven.  Yet  in  looking  on  his  work  to-day,  beside  that 
of  Masaccio,  one  thinks  less,  I  fancy,  of  his  "study  and 
fatigues,"  of  his  structure  and  technique,  than  of  the  admirable 
beauty  of  his  work.  Consider  then  those  splendid  young  men 
in  the  Raising  of  Tabitha,  who  pass  by  almost  unconcerned, 
though  one  has  turned  his  head  to  see,  the  sheer  loveliness 
of  Eve  and  Adam,  really  for  the  first  time  bom  again  here 
naked  and  unashamed ;  or  the  easy  and  beautiful  gesture  of 
the  angel,  who  bids  them  begone  out  of  the  gate  of  Paradise. 
In  Masaccio's  work  you  will  find  a  more  splendid  style,  the 
real  majesty  of  the  creator,  a  strangely  sure  generalisation 
and  expression ;   but   in    Masolino's  work  there  still  lingers 


S.  FREDIANO  267 

something  of  the  mere  beauty  of  Gentile  da  Fabriano,  the 
particular  personal  loveliness  of  things  which  you  may  know 
he  has  touched  with  a  caress  or  seen  always  with  joy. 

Masaccio  was  born  at  Castello  S.  Giovanni,  on  the  way  to 
Arezzo.  He  was  the  son  of  a  notary,  Ser  Giovanni  di  Simone 
Guidi,  called  della  Scheggia,  and  his  first  labours  in  art, 
Vasari  tells  us,  were  begun  at  the  time  when  Masolino  was 
working  at  this  chapel  in  the  Carmine,  He  had  evidently 
been  much  impressed  by  the  work  of  Donato,  and,  indeed, 
something  of  the  realism  of  sculpture  has  passed  into  his 
work,  in  the  St.  Peter  Baptizing,  for  instance,  where  he  who 
stands  by  the  side  of  the  pool,  awaiting  his  turn,  has  much  of 
the  reality  of  a  statue.  And  then  with  a  magical  sincerity 
Masaccio  has  understood  the  mere  discomfort  of  such  a  delay 
in  the  cool  air,  and  a  shiver  seems  about  to  pass  over  that 
body,  which  is  as  real  to  us  as  any  figure  in  the  work  of 
Michelangelo.  Or  again,  in  the  fresco  of  the  Tribute  Money, 
how  real  and  full  of  energy  these  people  are, — the  young  man 
with  his  back  to  us,  who  has  been  interrupted ;  Jesus  Himself, 
who  has  just  interposed ;  Peter,  who  is  protesting.  How  full 
of  a  real  majesty  is  this  composition,  admirably  composed, 
too,  and  original  even  in  that.  Here,  it  might  seem,  we  have 
the  end  of  merely  decorative  painting,  the  beginning  of 
realism,  of  the  effect  of  reality,  and  it  is  therefore  with  surprise 
we  see  so  facile  a  master  as  Filippino  Lippi  set  to  finish  work 
of  such  elemental  and  tremendous  genius.  How  pretty  his 
work  seems  beside  these  realities. 

Coming  out  into  the  Piazza  again,  and  turning  to  the  left 
down  Via  S.  Frediano,  you  come  almost  at  once,  on  the  right, 
to  the  Church  of  S.  Frediano  in  Castello.  You  may  enter  it 
from  Lung'  Arno,  but  it  would  scarcely  be  worth  a  visit,  for  it 
is  a  late  seventeenth-century  building,  save  that  in  the  convent 
may  still  be  found  the  cell  of  S.  Maria  Maddalena  de'  Pazzi ; 
for  it  was  this  convent  that  the  Carmelite  nuns  exchanged 
with  the  Cistercians  for  the  house  in  Via  di  Pinti,  called  to- 
day S.  Maria  Maddalena  de*  Pazzi,  where  Perugino  painted 
his  beautiful  fresco  of  the  Crucifixion. 


268    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Just  across  the  way  is  the  Mercato  S.  Frediano  and  the 
suppressed  monastery  of  the  Camaldolese,  now  a  school ;  and 
by  this  way  you  come  to  Porta  S.  Frediano,  by  which  Charles 
VIII  of  France  entered  Florence  and  Rinaldo  degli  Albizzi  left 
it.  The  whole  of  this  quarter  is  given  up  to  the  poor  and  to 
the  Madonna  of  the  street  comer,  for  here  her  children  dwell, 
the  outcasts  and  refuse  of  civilisation  who  work  that  we  may 
live.  It  is  always  with  reluctance,  in  spite  of  the  children, 
that  I  come  by  this  way,  so  that  if  possible  I  always  return 
by  Lung*  Arno,  past  Torrino  di  S.  Rosa  and  the  barracks  of 
S.  Friano  and  the  grain  store  of  Cosimo  in,  past  the  houses 
of  the  Soderini  to  Ponte  alia  Carraia,  which  fell  on  Mayday 
1304,  sending  so  many  to  that  other  world  they  had  come 
out  to  see,  and  so  past  the  house  of  Piero  Capponi,  the  hero 
of  1494  who  kept  the  Medici  at  bay,  and  threatened  Charles 
VIII  in  the  council ;  then  turning  down  Via  Coverelli  one  comes 
to  Santo  Spirito. 

It  was  the  Augustinian  Hermits  who,  coming  to  Florence 
about  1260,  bought  a  vineyard  close  to  where  Via  Maggio, 
an  abbreviation  of  Via  Maggiore,  now  is,  from  the  Vellati 
family.  Here  they  built  a  monastery  and  a  church,  and 
dedicated  them  to  the  Santo  Spirito,  so  that  when  the  city 
was  divided  into  quartieri  this  Sestiere  d'Oltramo  became 
Quartiere  di  S.  Spirito.  In  1397,  as  it  is  said,  they  deter- 
mined to  rebuild  the  place  on  a  bigger  scale,  and  to  this  end 
appointed  Brunellesco  their  architect  The  church  was  begun 
in  1433,  and  was  burned  down  in  147 1,  during  the  Easter 
celebrations,  which  were  particularly  splendid  in  that  year 
owing  to  the  visit  of  Galeazzo  Maria  Sforza.  It  was  rebuilt, 
however,  in  the  next  twenty  years  from  the  designs  of 
Brunellesco,  and  is  to-day  the  most  beautiful  fifteenth-century 
church  in  Florence,  full  of  light  and  sweetness,  very  spacious, 
too,  and  with  a  certain  fortunate  colour  about  it  that  gives  it 
an  air  of  cheerfulness  and  serenity  beyond  anything  of  the 
kind  to  be  found  in  the  Duomo  or  S.  Lorenzo.  And  then, 
the  Florentines  have  been  content  to  leave  it  alone, — at  any 
rate,  so  far  as  the  unfinished  fagade  is  concerned.     It  is  in  the 


^  S.  SPIRITO  269 

form  of  a  Latin  cross,  and  suggests  even  yet  in  some  happy 
way  the  very  genius  of  the  Latin  people  in  its  temperance  and 
delight  in  the  sun  and  the  day.  The  convent,  it  is  true,  has 
been  desecrated,  and  is  now  a  barracks ;  most  of  the  altars 
have  been  robbed  of  their  treasures ;  but  the  church  itself 
remains  to  us  a  very  precious  possession  from  that  fifteenth 
century,  which  in  Italy  certainly  was  so  fortunate,  so  perfect  a 
dawn  of  a  day  that  was  a  little  disappointing,  and  at  evening 
so  disastrous. 

Of  the  works  of  art  remaining  in  the  nave,  that  spacious 
nave  where  one  could  wander  all  day  long,  only  the  copy  of 
Michelangelo's  Piet^  in  St.  Peter's  will,  I  think,  detain  us  for 
more  than  a  moment.  What  is  left  to  us  of  that  far-away 
flower-like  beauty  of  fifteenth-century  painting  and  sculpture 
will  be  found  in  the  great  transept,  that  makes  of  the  church 
a  cross  of  light,  a  temple  of  the  sun.  Here,  amid  many 
works  of  that  time  given  to  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  Botticelli,  Ghir- 
landajo,  Donatello,  and  others,  in  the  south  transept  there 
is  a  Madonna  with  the  family  of  de'  Nerli  by  Filippino 
Lippi,  and  in  the  Capponi  Chapel  a  fine  portrait  of  Neri 
Capponi,  while  in  the  next  chapel  Perugino's  Vision  of  St. 
Bernard,  now  in  Berlin,  used  to  stand.  Here,  too,  is  a 
Statue  of  St.  Sebastian,  nearly  always  invisible,  said  to  be  from 
the  hand  of  Donatello ;  in  the  choir  is  a  Madonna  enthroned 
by  Lorenzo  di  Credi.  The  sacristy  is  beautiful,  built  by 
Giovanni  da  Sangallo,  and  the  cloisters  now  spoiled  are  the 
work  of  Ammanati.  And  then,  here  Niccolo  Niccoli  is 
buried,  that  great  book -collector  and  humanist;  while  the 
barbarians  are  represented,  if  only  by  the  passing  figure  of 
Martin  Luther,  not  then  forsworn,  who  is  said  to  have 
preached  here  on  his  way  to  Rome.  It  is  strange  to  think 
that  these  beautiful  pillars  have  heard  his  rough  eloquence,  an 
eloquence  that  was  so  soon  to  destroy  the  spirit  that  had 
conceived  them. 

Close  by  in  Piazza  S.  Spirito  is  Palazzo  Guadagni,  built  for 
Ranicri  Dei  at  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  by  Cronaca. 
It  was  not,  however,  till  1684  that  the  Guadagni  family  came 


270    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

into  possession  of  it.  Bernardo  Guadagni,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, was  Gonfaloniere  of  Justice  when  Cosimo  de' 
Medici  was  expelled  the  city  in  1433.  Passing  this  palace 
and  turning  to  the  right  into  Via  Mazzetta,  you  pass  at  the 
comer  the  Church  of  S.  Felice,  which  has  been  so  often  a 
refuge, — for  at  first  the  Sylvestrians  had  it,  and  held  it  till  the 
fourteenth  century,  when  it  passed  to  the  Camaldolese,  from 
whom  it  passed  again  to  a  congregation  of  Dominican  nuns, 
and  became  a  sort  of  refuge  for  women  who  had  fled  away 
from  their  husbands.  Within,  you  may  find  a  few  old 
pictures,  a  Giottesque  Crucifixion,  and  a  Madonna  and 
Saints,  a  fifteenth  -  century  work.  Then,  turning  into  Via 
Romana,  you  come,  past  the  gardens  of  S.  Piero  in  Gattolino, 
to  the  Porta  Romana,  the  great  gate  of  the  Via  Romana,  the 
way  to  Rome,  and  before  you  is  the  Hill  of  Gardens,  and 
behind  you  is  the  garden  of  the  Pitti  Palace,  Giardino  di 
Boboli,  and  farther  still,  across  Via  Romana,  the  Giardino 
Torrigiani. 

The  Boboli  Gardens,  with  their  alley  ways  of  ilex,  their 
cypresses  and  broken  statues,  their  forgotten  fountains,  are  full 
of  sadness — 

"Tout  en  chantant  sur  le  mode  mineur, 
L'amour  vainqueur  et  la  vie  opportune ; 
lis  n'ont  pas  I'ais  de  croire  h  lour  bonheur, 
Et  leur  chanson  se  mele  au  clair  de  lune. 

Au  calme  clair  de  lune  triste  et  beau, 

Qui  fait  les  oiseau  dans  les  arbres, 
Et  sangloter  d'extase  les  jets  d'eau, 

Les  grands  jets  d'eau  sveltes  panni  les  marbres." 

But  the  gardens  of  the  Viale  are  in  spring,  at  any  rate,  full 
of  the  joy  of  roses,  banks,  hedges,  cascades  of  roses,  armsful 
of  them,  drowsy  in  the  heat  and  heavy  with  sweetness. 

"  I'mi  trovai,  fanciulle,  un  bel  mattino 
Di  mezzo  maggio,  in  un  verde  giardino." 

And  if  it  be  not  the  very  place  of  which  Poliziano  sang  in  the 


line     HOHOI  I 


S.  MINIATO  271 

most  beautiful  verses  he  ever  wrote,  certainly  to-day  there  is 
nothing  more  lovely  in  Florence  in  spring,  and  in  autumn  too, 
than  this  Hill  of  Gardens.  In  autumn  too ;  for  then  the  way 
that  winds  there  about  the  hills  is  an  alley  of  gold,  strewn  with 
the  leaves  of  the  plane-trees  that  the  winds  have  scattered  in 
countless  riches  under  your  feet ;  that  whisper  still  in  golden 
beauty  over  your  head.  There,  as  you  walk  in  spring,  while 
the  city  unfolds  herself  before  you,  a  garden  of  roses  in  which 
a  lily  has  towered,  or  in  the  autumn  afternoons  when  she  is 
caught  in  silver  mist,  a  city  of  fragile  and  delicate  beauty,  that 
is  soon  lost  in  the  twilight,  you  may  see  Florence  as  she 
remains  in  spite  of  every  violation,  Citti  dei  Fiori,  Firenze 
la  Bella  Bellissima,  the  sweet  Princess  of  Italy.  And,  like  the 
way  of  life,  this  road  among  the  flowers  ends  in  a  graveyard, 
the  graveyard  of  S.  Miniato  al  Monte,  under  which  nestles  S. 
Salvatore,  that  little  brown  bird  among  the  cypresses,  over  the 
grey  olives. 

The  story  of  S.  Miniato  makes  one  of  the  more  quiet 
chapters  of  Villani.  "  Our  city  of  Florence,"  ^  he  tells  you, 
returning  from  I  know  not  what  delightful  digression,  "was 
ruled  long  time  under  the  government  and  lordship  of  the 
Emperors  of  Rome,  and  oft-times  the  Emperors  came  to 
sojourn  in  Florence,  when  they  were  journeying  into 
Lombardy  and  into  Germany  and  into  France  to  conquer 
provinces.  And  we  find  that  Decius  the  Emperor,  in  the  first 
year  of  his  reign,  which  was  in  the  year  of  Christ  270,  was 
in  Florence,  the  treasure-house  and  chancelry  of  the  empire, 
sojourning  there  for  his  pleasure ;  and  the  said  Decius  cruelly 
persecuted  the  Christians  wheresoever  h6  could  hear  of  them 
or  find  them  out,  and  he  heard  tell  how  the  blessed  S. 
Miniato  was  living  as  a  hermit,  near  to  Florence,  with  his 
disciples  and  companions,  in  a  wood  which  was  called 
Arisbotto  di  Firenze,  behind  the  place  where  now  stands  his 
church,  above  the  city  of  Florence.  This  blessed  Miniato  was 
first-born  son  to  the  King  of  Armenia,  and  having  left  his 

Villani,  Cronica,  1.  i.  c.  57,  translated  by  R.   E.  Solfe.     Constable, 
1906. 


272    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

kingdom  for  the  faith  of  Christ,  to  do  penance  and  to  be  far 
away  from  his  kingdom,  he  went  over-seas  to  gain  pardon  at 
Rome,  and  then  betook  himself  to  the  said  wood,  which  was 
in  those  days  wild   and   solitary,  forasmuch   as   the   city  of 
Florence  did  not  extend,  and  was  not  settled  beyond  Amo, 
but  was  all  on  this  side, — save  only  there  was  one  bridge 
across  Amo,  not,  however,  where  the  bridges  now  are.     And 
it  is  said   by  many  that   it  was   the   ancient  bridge  of  the 
Fiesolans  which  led  from  Girone  to  Candegghi,  and  this  was 
the  ancient  and  direct  road  and  way  from  Rome  to  Fiesole, 
and  to  go  into  Lombardy  and  across  the  mountains.     The 
said  Emperor  Decius  caused  the  said  blessed  Miniato  to  be 
taken,  as  his  story  narrates.     Great  gifts  and  rewards  were 
offered  him,  as  to  a  king's  son,  to  the  end  he  should  deny 
Christ;  and  he,  constant  and  firm  in  the  faith,  would  have 
none  of  his  gifts,  but  endured  divers  martyrdoms.     In  the  end 
the  said  Decius  caused  him  to  be  beheaded,  where  now  stands 
the  Church  of  S.  Candida  alia  Croce  at  Gorgo ;  and  many 
faithful  followers  of  Christ  received  martyrdom  in  this  place. 
And  when  the  head  of  the  blessed  Miniato  had  been  cut  off, 
by  a  miracle  of  Christ,  with  his  hands  he  set  it  again  upon 
his  trunk,  and  on  his  feet  passed  over  Arno,  and  went  up  the 
hill  where  now  stands  his  church,  where  at  that  time  there 
was  a  little  oratory  in  the   name   of  the  blessed  Peter  the 
Apostle,  where   many  bodies    of  holy  martyrs  were  buried. 
And  when  S.  Miniato  was  come  to  that  place,  he  gave  up  his 
soul  to  Christ,  and  his  body  was  there  secretly  buried  by  the 
Christians ;  the  which  place,  by  reason  of  the  merits  of  the 
blessed  S.  Miniato,  was  devoutly  venerated  by  the  Florentines 
after  they  were  become  Christians,  and  a  little  church  was 
built  there  in  his  honour.     But  the  great  and  noble  church  of 
marble  which  is  there  now  in  our  times,  we  find  to  have  been 
built  later  by  the   zeal    of  the  venerable  Father  Alibrando, 
Bishop  and  citizen  of  Florence  in  the  year  of  Christ  1013, 
begun  on  the   26th  day  of  April,  by  the  commandment  and 
authority  of  the   Catholic  and    holy  Emperor,  Henry  11    of 
Bavaria,  and  of  his  wife,  the  holy  Empress  Gunegonda,  which 


S.  MINIATO  273 

was  reigning  in  those  times  ;  and  they  presented  and  endowed 
the  said  church  with  many  rich  possessions  in  Florence  and 
in  the  country,  for  the  good  of  their  souls,  and  caused  the  said 
church  to  be  repaired  and  rebuilt  of  marble,  as  it  is  now. 
And  they  caused  the  body  of  the  blessed  Miniato  to  be  trans- 
lated to  the  altar,  which  is  beneath  the  vaulting  of  the  said 
church,  with  much  reverence  and  solemnity,  by  the  said 
bishop  and  the  clergy  of  Florence,  with  all  the  people,  both 
men  and  women  of  the  city  of  Florence ;  but  afterwards 
the  said  church  was  completed  by  the  commonwealth  of 
Florence,  and  the  stone  steps  were  made  which  lead  down 
by  the  hill ;  and  the  consuls  of  the  Art  of  the  Calimala 
were  put  in  charge  of  the  said  work  of  S.  Miniato,  and  were 
to  protect  it." 

Thus  far  Villani :  to-day  S.  Miniato,  the  church  and  the 
great  palace  built  in  1234  by  Andrea  Mozzi,  Bishop  of 
Florence,  come  to  us  with  memories,  not  of  S.  Miniato  alone, 
that  somewhat  shadowy  martyr  of  so  long  ago,  but  of  S. 
Giovanni  Gualberto  also,  of  the  Benedictines  too,  and  of  the 
Olivetans,  of  the  siege  of  1529,  when  Michelangelo  fortified 
the  place  in  defence  of  Florence,  saving  the  tower  from 
destruction,  as  it  is  said,  by  swathing  it  in  mattresses ;  of 
Cosimo  I,  who  from  here  held  the  city  in  leash.  It  is  the 
most  beautiful  of  the  Tuscan-Romanesque  churches  left  to 
us  in  Florence ;  built  in  the  form  of  a  basilica,  with  a  great 
nave  and  two  aisles,  the  choir  being  raised  high  above  the  rest 
of  the  church  on  twenty-eight  beautiful  red  ancient  pillars, 
over  a  crypt  where,  under  the  altar,  S.  Miniatio  sleeps  through 
the  centuries.  The  fading  frescoes  of  the  aisles,  the  splendour 
and  quiet  of  this  great  lovely  church  that  has  guarded  Florence 
almost  from  the  beginning,  that  has  seen  Buondelmonte  die  at 
the  foot  of  the  Statue  of  Mars,  that  has  heard  the  voice  of 
Dante  and  watched  the  flight  of  Corso  Donati,  have  a  peculiar 
fascination,  almost  ghostly  in  their  strangeness,  beyond  anything 
else  to  be  found  in  Florence.  And  if  for  the  most  part  the 
church  is  so  ancient  as  to  rival  the  Baptistery  itself,  the 
Renaissance  has  left  there  more  than  one  beautiful  thing,  which 


274    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

to-day  are  certainly  the  great  material  treasures  of  the  church. 
For  between  the  two  flights  of  steps  that  lead  out  of  the  nave 
into  the  choir,  Michelozzo  built  in  1448,  for  Piero  de'  Medici, 
a  chapel  to  hold  the  crucifix,  now  in  S.  Trinitk,  which  bowed 
to  S.  Giovanni  Gualberto  when  he  forgave  his  brother's 
murderer,^  and  in  the  left  aisle  is  the  chapel,  built  in  1461  by 
Antonio  Rossellino,  where  the  young  Cardinal  Jacopo  of 
Portugal  lies  in  one  of  the  loveliest  of  all  Tuscan  tombs,  and 
there  Luca  della  Robbia  has  placed  some  of  his  most  charm- 
ing terracottas,  and  Alessio  Baldovinetti  has  painted  in  fresco. 
In  all  Tuscany  there  is  nothing  more  lovely  than  that  tomb, 
carved  in  1467  by  Antonio  Rossellino  for  the  body  of  the 
young  Cardinal,  but  twenty-six  years  old  when  he  died,  "  hav- 
ing lived  in  the  flesh  as  though  he  were  freed  from  it,  an 
Angel  rather  than  a  man."  Over  the  beautiful  sarcophagus, 
on  a  bed  beside  which  two  boy  angels  wait,  the  young 
Cardinal  sleeps,  his  delicate  hands  folded  at  rest  at  last. 
Above,  two  angels  kneel,  about  to  give  him  the  crown  of 
glory  which  fadeth  not  away,  and  Madonna,  borne  from 
heaven  by  the  children,  comes  with  her  Son  to  welcome  him 
home.  There,  in  the  most  characteristic  work  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  you  find  man  still  thinking  about  death,  not  as 
a  trance  out  of  which  we  shall  awaken  to  some  terrible 
remembrance,  but  as  sleep,  a  sweet  and  fragile  slumber, 
that  has  something  of  the  drooping  of  the  flowers  about  it, 
in  a  certain  touching  beauty  and  regret  that  is  never  bitter, 
but,  like  the  ending  of  a  song  or  the  close  of  a  fair  day 
of  spring,  that  rightly,  though  not  without  sadness,  passes 
into  silence,  into  night,  in  which  shine  only  the  eternal 
stars. 

It  is  strange  that  of  all  the  difficult  hills  of  Italy,  it  is 
the  steep  way  hither  from  Porto  S.  Niccola,  of  old,  in  truth 
Via  Crucis,  that  comes  into  Dante's  mind  when,  in  the 
Twelfth  Purgatorio,  he  sees  the  ascent  to  the  second  cornice, 
where  is  purged  the  sin  of  envy.  Something  of  the  immense 
sadness  of  that  terrible  hill  seems  to  linger  to-day  about  the 
»  See  p.  363. 


PORTA  DI  S.  GIORGIO  275 

Monti  alle  Croci :  it  is  truly  a  hill  of  the  dead,  over  which 
hovers,  pointing  the  way,  some  angel 

"la  creatura  bella 
Bianca  vestita,  e  nella  faccia  quale 
Per  tremolando  mattutina  Stella." 

The  Convent  of  S.  Salvatore — S.  Francesco  al  Monte,  as  it 
was  called  of  old — was  build  in  1480  after  a  design  by 
Cronaca.  Hesitating  among  the  cypresses  on  the  verge  of  the 
olives  gardens,  Michelangelo  called  it  La  bella  Villanella,  and 
truly  in  its  warm  simplicity  and  shy  loveliness  it  is  just  that,  a 
beautiful  peasant  girl  among  the  vines  in  a  garden  of  olives. 
But  she  has  been  stripped  of  her  treasures,  her  trinkets  of 
silver,  her  pretty  gold  chains,  her  gown  of  taffetas,  her  kerchief 
of  silk  (do  you  not  remember  the  verses  of  Lorenzo),  and  all 
these  you  will  find  to-day,  fading  out  of  use  in  the  Uffizi, 
where,  in  a  palace  that  has  become  a  museum,  they  are  most 
out  of  place :  thus  they  have  robbed  the  peasants  for  the  sake 
of  the  gold  of  the  tourists,  the  sterile  ejaculations  of  the  critics. 

It  is  well  not  to  return  to  the  city  by  the  tramway,  which 
rushes  through  the  trees  of  the  Viale  Michelangelo  like  I 
know  not  what,  hideous  and  shrieking  beast  of  prey,  but  to 
wander  down  towards  the  Piazzale,  and  then,  just  before  you 
came  to  it,  on  your  left,  by  S.  Salvatore,  to  go  down  to  Porta 
S.  Miniato,  that  "  gap  in  the  wall,"  and  then  to  pass  by  the  old 
wall  itself  up  the  hill  to  Porta  di  S.  Giorgio  among  the  olives 
between  the  towers  under  the  Belvedere.  It  is  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  gates  of  the  city,  little,  too,  and  still  keeps 
its  fresco  of  the  fourteenth  century. 


XXI 
FLORENCE 

THE    BARGELLO 

IF  Amolfo  di  Cambio  is  the  architect  not  only  of  the 
Duomo  but  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  and  if  Orcagna 
conceived  the  delicate  beauty  of  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  it  is,  if 
we  may  believe  Vasari,  partly  to  Arnolfo  and  partly  to  Agnolo 
Gaddi  that  we  owe  Bargello,  that  palace  so  like  a  fortress,  at 
the  corner  of  Via  del  Proconsolo  and  Via  Ghibellina,  Begun 
in  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  for  the  Capitano  del 
Popolo,  it  later  became  the  Palace  of  the  Podest^  passing  at 
last,  under  the  Grand  Dukes,  to  the  Bargello,  the  Captain  of 
Justice,  who  turned  it  barbarously  enough  into  a  prison,  divid- 
ing the  great  rooms,  as  it  is  said,  into  cells  for  his  prisoners. 
To-day  it  is  become  the  National  Museum,  where  all  that 
could  be  gathered  of  the  work  of  the  Tuscan  sculptors  is 
housed  and  arranged  in  order. 

Often  as  I  wander  through  those  rooms  or  loiter  in  the 
shadow  under  the  cloisters  of  the  beautiful  courtyard,  perhaps 
the  most  lovely  court  in  Tuscany,  the  remembrance  of  that 
old  fierce  life  which  desired  beauty  so  passionately  and  was  so 
eager  for  every  superiority,  comes  to  me,  and  I  ask  myself  how 
the  dream  which  that  world  pursued  with  so  much  simplicity 
and  enthusiasm  can  have  led  us  at  last  to  the  world  of  to-day, 
with  its  orderly  disorder,  its  trams  and  telegraphs  and  steam- 
engines,  its  material  comfort  which,  how  strangely,  we  have 
mistaken  for  civilisation.  In  all  London  there  is  no  palace  so 
fine  as  this  old  prison,  nor  a  square  so  beautiful  as  Piazza  della 

276 


THE  BARGELLO  277 

Signoria.  Instead  of  Palazzo  Pitti  (so  much  more  splendid  is 
our  civilisation  than  theirs)  we  are  content  with  Buckingham 
Palace,  and  instead  of  Palazzo  Riccardi  we  have  made  the 
desolate  cold  ugliness  of  Devonshire  House.  Our  craftsmen 
have  become  machine-minders,  our  people,  on  the  verge  of 
starvation,  as  we  admit,  without  order,  with  restraint,  without 
the  discipline  of  service,  having  lost  the  desire  of  beauty 
or  splendour,  have  become  serfs  because  they  are  ignorant  and 
fear  to  die.  And  it  is  we  who  have  claimed  half  the  world 
and  thrust  upon  it  an  all  but  universal  domination.  In  thus 
bringing  mankind  under  our  rule,  it  is  ever  of  our  civilisation 
that  we  boast,  that  immense  barbarism  which  in  its  brutality 
and  materialism  first  tried  to  destroy  the  Latin  Church  and 
then  the  Latin  world,  which  alone  could  have  saved  us  from 
ourselves.  Before  our  forests  were  cleared  here  in  Italy  they 
carved  statues,  before  our  banks  were  founded  here  in  Italy 
they  made  the  images  of  the  gods,  and  in  those  days  there 
was  happiness,  and  men  for  joy  made  beautiful  things.  And 
to-day,  half  dead  with  our  own  smoke,  herded  together  like 
wild  beasts,  slaves  of  our  own  inventions,  ah,  blinded  by  our 
unthinkable  folly,  before  the  statues  that  they  made,  before  the 
pictures  that  they  painted,  before  the  palaces  that  they  built, 
in  the  churches  where  they  still  pray,  stupefied  by  our  own 
stupidity,  brutalised  by  our  own  barbarism,  we  boast  of  a 
civilisation  that  has  already  made  us  ridiculous,  and  of  which 
we  shall  surely  die.  Here  in  the  Bargello,  the  ancient  palace 
of  the  Podestk  of  a  Latin  city,  let  us  be  silent  and  forget 
our  madness  before  the  statues  of  the  Gods,  the  images  of  the 
great  and  beautiful  people  of  old. 

Tuscan  sculpture,  that  of  all  the  arts,  save  architecture,  was 
the  first  to  rise  out  of  the  destruction  with  which  the  barbarians 
of  the  North  had  overwhelmed  the  Latin  world,  came  to  its 
own  really  in  the  fifteenth  century.  After  the  beautiful 
convention  of  Byzantium  had  passed  away,  and  Gruamone 
and  Adeodatus  had  carved  at  Pistoja,  Biduinus  at  S.  Cassiano, 
Robertus  at  Lucca,  Bonamicus  and  Bonanno  at  Pisa,  and 
Guido  da  Como  again  at    Pistoja,  in  the  work  of  Niccolb 


278    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Pisano  at  Pisa  we  come  upon  the  first  thought  of  the 
Renaissance,  the  reliefs  of  the  pulpit  in  the  Baptistery,  in 
which  the  Middle  Age  seems  to  have  passed  over  the  work 
of  Antiquity  almost  like  a  caress.  In  these  panels  of  the 
pulpit  at  Pisa,  where  Madonna  masquerades  at  Areadne  and 
the  angel  speaks  with  the  gesture  of  Hermes,  some  sentiment 
of  a  new  sweetness  in  the  world  seems  to  lurk  amid  all  the 
naive  classicism,  finding  expression  at  last  in  such  a  thing, 
for  instance,  as  the  divine  figure  of  Virtue  in  the  pulpit  of 
the  Duomo  of  Siena,  in  which  some  have  thought  to  find 
French  influence,  the  work  of  the  artists  of  Chartres  and 
Rheims,  visible  enough,  one  might  think,  in  the  work  of 
Niccolb's  son  Giovanni  Pisano,  whose  ivory  Statue  of  Madonna 
is  to-day  perhaps  the  greatest  treasure  of  the  sacristy  of  the 
Duomo  at  Pisa. 

Niccolb  Pisano  was  from  Apulia.  He  may  well  have 
seen  the  beautiful  fragments  of  Greek  and  Roman  art 
scattered  over  the  South  before  he  came  to  Pisa,  yet  there 
may,  too,  be  more  truth  in  Vasari's  tale  than  we  are  sometimes 
willing  to  admit,  so  that  in  the  northern  city  beside  Amo 
it  may  well  have  been  with  a  sort  of  delight  he  came  upon 
the  art  of  the  ancients,  asleep  in  the  beautiful  Campo  Santo 
of  Pisa,  and  awakened  it,  yes,  almost  with  a  kiss. 

It  is,  however,  in  the  work  of  his  pupils  Giovanni  Pisano 
and  Amolfo  Fiorentino^  that  Tuscan  sculpture  begins  to 
throw  off  the  yoke  of  antiquity  and  to  express  itself.  Fra 
Giuglielmo,  another  pupil  of  Niccolb's,  in  his  work  at  Perugia 
more  nearly  preserves  the  manner  of  his  master,  though 
always  inferior  to  him  in  beauty  and  force  :  but  in  the  work  of 
Amolfo  which  remains  to  us  chiefly  in  the  tomb  of  Cardinal 
de  Braye  in  S.  Domenico  at  Orvieto,  and  in  the  Tabernacle 
of  S.  Paolo  Fuori  at  Rome,  and  more  especially  in  the  work 
of  Giovanni  Pisano  in  the  pulpit  for  the  Duomo  of  Pisa,  now 
in  the  Museo,  for  instance,  we  may  see  the  beginnings  of  that 

'  It  seems  necessary  to  note  that  probably  Amolfo  Fiorentino  and 
Arnolfo  di  Cambio  are  not  the  same  person.  Cf.  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle, 
op.  cit.  vol.  i.  p.  127,  note  4. 


THE  BARGELLO  279 

new  Tuscan  sculpture  which  in  Andrea  Pisano  and  Andrea 
Orcagna  was  to  make  the  work  of  Nanni  di  Banco,  of  Ghiberti 
and  Donatello  possible,  and  through  them  to  inspire  the 
art  of  all  the  sculptors  of  the  fifteenth  century,  that  is  to 
say  of  the  Renaissance  itself. 

Here  in  the  Bargello  it  is  chiefly  that  art  of  the  fifteenth 
century  that  we  see  in  all  its  beauty  and  realism  :  and  though 
for  the  proper  understanding  of  it  some  knowledge  of  its 
derivation  might  seem  to  be  necessary,  a  knowledge  not  to 
be  seen  in  the  Museo  itself,  it  is  really  a  new  impulse  in 
sculpture,  different  from,  though  maybe  directed  by,  that 
older  art  which  we  come  upon,  and  may  watch  there,  in  its 
dawn  and  in  its  splendour,  till  with  Bandinelli  and  the 
pupils  of  Michelangelo  it  loses  itself  in  a  noisy  grandiosity, 
a  futile  gesticulation. 

Realism,  I  said  in  speaking  of  the  character  of  this  fifteenth 
century  work,  and  indeed  it  is  just  there  that  we  come  upon 
the  very  thought  of  the  time.  Sculpture  is  no  longer  content 
with  mere  beauty,  it  has  divined  that  something  is  wanting, 
yes,  even  in  the  almost  miraculous  work  of  Niccolb  Pisano 
himself;  is  it  only  an  expression  of  character,  of  the  passing 
moment,  of  movement  that  is  lacking,  or  something  com- 
prising all  these  things — some  indefinable  radiance  which  is 
very  life  itself?  It  is  this  question  which  seems  to  have 
presented  itself  to  the  sculptors  of  the  fifteenth  century :  and 
their  work  is  their  answer  to  it. 

For  even  as  the  philosophers  and  alchemists  had  sought 
so  patiently  for  life,  for  the  very  essence  of  it,  through  all  the 
years  of  the  Middle  Age,  so  art  now  set  out  in  search  of  it, 
the  greatest  treasure  of  all,  and  seems  to  have  found  it  at 
last,  not  hardly  or  hidden  away  in  some  precipitous  place  of 
stones,  or  among  the  tombs,  but  as  a  little  child  playing 
among  the  flowers. 

The  great  masters  of  the  Middle  Age  had  set  themselves 
to  express  in  stone  or  colour  the  delicate  beauty  of  the  soul, 
its  term,  too,  in  the  loveliness  of  the  world,  where  only  as  it 
were   by   chance   it   might    escape   everlasting   death.     The 


28o    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

subtle  beauty  and  pathos  of  their  art  has  escaped  our  eyes, 
filled  as  they  are  with  the  marvellous  work  of  Greece,  unknown 
till  our  own  time,  the  splendid  and  joyful  work  of  the 
Renaissance,  the  mysterious  and  lovely  work  of  our  own 
day :  it  remains,  nevertheless,  a  consummate  and  exquisite 
art  in  its  dawn,  in  its  noon,  in  its  decadence,  but  it  seeks 
to  express  something  we  have  forgotten,  and  its  secret  is  for 
the  most  part  altogether  hidden  from  us.  It  is  from  this 
art,  as  beautiful  in  its  expression  of  itself  as  that  of  Greece, 
that  Niccolb  Pisano  turns  away,  not  to  Nature,  but  to 
Antiquity.  The  movement  which  followed,  producing  while 
it  continued  almost  all  that  is  to-day  gathered  in  the  Bargello, 
together  with  much  else  that  is  still  happily  where  it  was 
bom,  is  as  it  were  an  appeal  from  Antiquity  to  Life,  to 
Nature.  In  the  simplicity  and  impulse  of  this  movement, 
so  spontaneous,  so  touching,  so  full  of  a  sense  of  beauty, 
which  sometimes,  though  not  often,  becomes  prettiness,  the 
art  of  sculpture,  awakened  at  last  from  the  mysticism  of  the 
Middle  Age,  seems  to  look  back  with  longing  to  the  antique 
world,  which  it  would  fain  claim  as  its  brother,  and  after  a 
little  moment  in  the  sun  falls  again  into  a  sort  of  mysticism, 
a  new  kingdom  of  the  spirit  with  Michelangelo,  and  of  the 
senses  merely  with  Sansovino  and  Giovanni  da  Bologna. 

Really  Tuscan  in  its  birth,  the  art  of  the  Quattrocento 
became  at  last  almost  wholly  Florentine,  a  flower  of  the 
Val  d'Amo  or  of  the  hills  about  it,  where  even  to-day  at 
Settignano,  at  Fiesole,  at  Majano,  at  Rovezzano,  you  may  sez 
the  sculptors  at  work  in  an  open  bottega  by  the  roadside, 
the  rough-hewn  marble  standing  here  and  there  in  many 
sizes  and  shapes,  the  chips  and  fragments  strewing  the 
highway. 

In  the  twilight  of  this  new  dawn  of  the  love  of  nature, 
perhaps  the  first  figure  we  may  descry  is  Piero  di  Giovanni 
Tedesco  (1386-1402),  who  carved  the  second  south  door 
of  the  Duomo  about  1398,  where  amid  so  many  lovely  natural 
things,  the  fig  leaf  and  the  oak  leaf  and  the  vine,  you  may 
see  the  lion  and  the  ox,  the  dog  and  the  snail,  and  man  too ; 


THE  BARGELLO  281 

little  fantastic  children  peeping  out  from  the  foliage,  or 
blowing  through  musical  reeds,  or  playing  with  a  kitten, 
tiny  naked  creatures  full  of  life  and  gladness. 

The  second  door  north  of  the  Duomo  was  carved  by 
Niccol6  di  Piero  d'Arezzo,  who  was  still  working  more  than 
forty  years  after  Tedesco's  death ;  but  his  best  work,  for 
we  pass  by  his  Statue  of  St.  Mark  in  the  chapel  of  the  apex 
of  the  Duomo,  is  the  little  Annunciation  over  the  niche  of 
the  St.  Matthew  of  Or  San  Michele.  In  his  work  on  the 
gate  of  the  Duomo,  however,  he  was  assisted  by  his  pupil 
Nanni  di  Banco,  who,  born  in  the  fourteenth  century,  died  in 
1420;  and  in  his  work,  and  in  that  of  Jacopo  della  Querela, 
a  Sienese,  and  a  much  greater  man,  we  see  the  very  dawn 
itself. 

Nanni  di  Banco,  Vasari  tells  us,  was  a  man  who  "  inherited 
a  competent  patrimony,  and  one  by  no  means  of  inferior 
condition."  He  goes  on  to  say  that  Nanni  was  the  pupil  of 
Donatello,  and  though  in  any  technical  sense  that  seems  to  be 
untrue,  it  may  well  be  that  he  sought  Donato's  advice  when- 
ever he  could,  for  he  seems  to  have  practised  his  art  for  love 
of  it,  and  may  well  have  recognised  the  genius  of  Donatello, 
who  probably  worked  beside  him.  He  too  worked  at  Or  San 
Michele,  where  he  carved  the  St.  Philip,  the  delightful  relief 
under  the  St.  George  of  Donatello,  and  the  Four  Saints,  which 
seem  to  us  so  full  of  the  remembrance  of  antiquity,  and  the 
S.  Eligius  with  its  beautiful  drapery,  a  little  stupid  still,  or 
sleepy  is  it,  with  the  mystery  of  the  Middle  Age  that  after  all 
was  but  just  passing  away.  Something  of  this  sleepiness 
seems  also  to  have  overtaken  the  St.  Luke,  that  tired  figure 
in  the  Duomo ;  and  so  it  is  with  a  real  surprise  that  we  come 
at  last  upon  the  best  work  of  Nanni's  life,  "  the  first  great 
living  composition  of  the  Renaissance,"  as  Burckhardt  says,  the 
Madonna  della  Cintola  over  Niccolb  d'  Arezzo's  door  of  the 
Duomo.  Even  with  all  the  work  of  Ghiberti,  of  Donatello 
even,  to  choose  from,  that  relief  of  Madonna  in  an  almond- 
shaped  glory,  stretching  out  her  hands  among  the  cherubim, 
with  a  gesture  so  eager  and  so  moving  to  St.  Thomas,  who 


282    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

kneels  before  her,  remains  one  of  the  most  beautiful  works  of 
that  age,  and  one  of  the  loveliest  in  all  Tuscany. 

There  follows  CiufTagni  (1381-1457),  that  poor  sculptor, 
working  in  his  old  age  amid  much  that  was  splendid  and 
strange  at  Rimini,  where  Lorenzo  Ghiberti  (i 378-1455)  had 
painted  in  his  youth.  For  all  his  genius,  Ghiberti,  that 
euphuist,  did  not  influence  those  who  came  after  him  as 
Donatello  did.  His  work,  inspired  by  the  past,  by  Andrea 
Pisano,  for  instance,  is  full  of  the  lost  beauty  of  the  Middle 
Age,  the  old  secrets  of  the  Gothic  mennar.  His  solution  of 
the  problem  before  him,  a  problem  of  movement,  of  character, 
of  life,  is  to  make  the  relief  as  purely  picturesque  as  possible ; 
with  him  sculpture  almost  passes  into  painting,  using  not 
without  charm  the  perspective  of  a  picture  the  mere  seeming 
of  just  that,  but  losing  how  profoundly,  much  of  the  nobility, 
the  delight  of  pure  form,  the  genius  peculiar  to  sculpture.  As 
an  artist  pure  and  simple,  as  a  master  of  composition,  he  may 
well  have  no  superior,  for  the  fantasy  and  beauty  of  his  work, 
its  complexity,  too,  are  almost  unique,  and  entirely  his  own ; 
but  in  simplicity,  and  in  a  certain  sense  of  reality,  he  is 
wanting,  so  that  however  delightful  his  work  may  be,  those 
"gates  of  Paradise,"  for  instance,  that  Michelangelo  praised, 
it  seems  to  be  complete  in  itself,  to  suggest  nothing  but  the 
wonderful  effect  one  may  get  by  using  the  means  proper  to 
one  art  for  expression  in  another,  as  though  one  were  to  write 
a  book  that  should  have  the  effect  upon  one  of  an  opera,  to 
allow  the  strange  rhythm  and  sensuous  beauty  of  Tristan 
and  Isolde,  for  instance,  to  disengage  itself  from  pages  which 
were  full  of  just  musical  words. 

Ghiberti's  gift  for  composition,  as  well  as  his  failure  to  under- 
stand, or  at  least  to  satisfy  the  more  fundamental  needs  of  his 
art,  may  be  seen  very  happily  in  those  two  panels  now  in  the 
Bargello,  which  he  and  Brunellesco  made  in  the  competition 
for  the  gates  of  the  Baptistery.  Looking  on  those  two  panels, 
where  both  artists  have  carved  the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac,  you  see 
Ghiberti  at  his  best,  the  whole  interest  not  divided,  as  it  is  in 
Brunellesco's  panel,  between  the  servants  and  the  sacrifice,  but 


THE  BARGELLO  283 

concentrated  altogether  upon  that  scene  which  is  about  to 
become  so  tragical.  Yet  with  what  energy  Brunellesco  has 
conceived  an  act  that  in  his  hands  seems  really  to  have 
happened.  How  swiftly  the  angel  has  seized  the  hand  of 
Abraham ;  how  splendidly  he  stands  the  old  man  who  is  about 
to  kill  his  only  son  for  the  love  of  God.  And  then  consider 
the  beauty  of  Isaac,  that  naked  body  which  in  Brunellesco's 
hands  is  splendid  with  life,  really  living  and  noble,  with  a  truth 
and  loveliness  far  in  advance  of  the  art  of  his  time.  Ghiberti 
has  felt  none  of  the  joy  of  a  creation  such  as  this  ;  his  Isaac  is 
sleepy,  a  little  surprised  and  altogether  docile ;  he  has  not 
sprung  up  from  his  knees  as  in  Brunellesco's  panel,  but  looks 
up  at  the  angel  as  though  he  had  never  understood  that  his 
very  life  was  at  stake.  Yet  it  was  in  those  gates  which, 
Brunellesco,  as  it  is  said,  retiring  from  the  contest,  the  Opera 
then  gave  into  his  hands,  that  we  shall  find  the  best  work  of 
Ghiberti.  There  it  is  really  the  art  of  Andrea  Pisano  that  he 
takes  as  a  master,  and  with  so  fair  an  example  before  him 
produces  as  splendid  a  thing  as  he  ever  accomplished,  simpler 
too,  and  it  may  be  more  sincere,  though  a  little  lacking  in 
expressiveness  and  life.  All  the  rest  of  his  work  seems  to  me 
to  be  lacking  in  conviction,  to  be  frankly  almost  an  experiment. 
His  Statue  of  St.  John  Baptist,  his  St.  Matthew  and  St.  Stephen, 
too,  at  Or  San  Michele,  different  though  they  are,  and  with  six 
years  between  each  of  them,  seem  alike  in  this,  that  they  are, 
while  splendid  in  energy,  wanting  in  purpose,  in  intention  :  he 
never  seems  sufficiently  sure  of  himself  to  convince  us.  His 
reliquary  in  bronze  containing  the  ashes  of  S.  Zenobius  in 
the  apse  of  the  Duomo,  is  difficult  to  see,  but  it  is  in  the 
manner  of  the  gates  of  Paradise.  It  is  not  to  the  disciples 
of  Ghiberti  that  the  future  belongs,  but  to  those  who  have 
studied  with  Brunellesco.  His  crucifix  in  S.  Maria  Novella, 
his  Evangelists  in  the  Pazzi  Chapel,  are  among  the  finest  work 
of  that  age,  full  of  life  and  the  remembrance  of  it  in  their 
strength  and  beauty. 

It   is,    however,  in  the   art   of  a   contemporary  that   the 
new  age  came  at  last  to  its  own — in  the  work  of  Uonatello, 


284    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

In  his  youth  he  had  worked  for  the  Duomo  and  for  Or  San 
Michele  side  by  side  with  Nanni  di  Banco,  who  may  perhaps 
pass  as  his  master.  Of  Donatello's  life  we  know  almost  nothing. 
If  we  seek  to  learn  something  of  him,  it  must  be  in  his  works, 
of  which  so  many  remain  to  us.  We  know,  however,  that  he 
was  the  intimate  friend  of  Brunellesco,  and  that  it  was  with  him 
he  set  out  for  Rome  soon  after  this  great  and  proud  man  had 
withdrawn  from  the  contest  with  Ghiberti  for  the  Baptistery 
gates.  Donatello  was  to  visit  Rome  again  in  later  life,  but  on 
this  first  journey  that  he  made  with  Brunellesco  for  the 
purposes  of  study,  he  must  have  become  acquainted  with  what 
was  left  of  antiquity  in  the  Eternal  City.  It  was  too  soon  for 
that  enthusiasm  for  antiquity,  which  later  overwhelmed  Italian 
art  so  disastrously,  to  have  arisen.  When  Donatello  returned 
about  a  year  later  to  Florence  to  work  for  the  Opera  del 
Duomo,  it  is  not  any  classic  influence  we  find  in  his  statues, 
but  rather  the  study  of  nature,  an  extraordinary  desire  to 
express  not  beauty,  scarcely  even  that,  but  character.  His 
work  is  strong,  and  often  splendid,  full  of  energy,  movement, 
and  conviction,  but  save  now  and  then,  as  in  the  S.  Croce 
Annunciation,  for  instance,  it  is  not  content  with  just 
beauty. 

Of  his  work  for  the  Duomo  and  the  Campanile,  I  speak 
elsewhere ;  it  will  be  sufficient  here  to  note  the  splendour  of 
the  St.  John  the  Divine  in  the  apse  of  the  Duomo,  which,  as 
Burckhardt  has  divined  already,  suggests  the  Moses  of 
Michelangelo.  The  destruction  of  the  unfinished  faQade  has 
perhaps  made  it  more  difficult  to  identify  the  figures  he  carved 
there,  but  whether  the  Poggio  of  the  Duomo,  for  instance,  be 
Job  or  no,  seems  after  all  to  matter  very  little,  since  that 
statue  itself,  be  its  subject  what  it  may,  remains  to  us. 

In  his  work  at  Or  San  Michele,  in  the  St.  Peter,  in  the  St. 
Mark,  so  like  the  St.  John  the  Divine  and  in  the  St  George, 
here  in  the  Bargello,  we  see  his  progress,  and  there  in  that 
last  figure  we  find  just  that  decision  and  simplicity  which 
seem  to  have  been  his  own,  with  a  certain  frankness  and 
beauty  of  youth  which  are  new  in  his  work. 


'UN     1111      i   I  \  I  V  h 


THE  BARGELLO  285 

There  are  some  ten  works  by  the  master  in  the  Bargello, 
together  with  numerous  casts  of  his  statues  and  reliefs  in 
other  parts  of  Italy,  so  that  he  may  be  studied  here  better 
than  anywhere  else.  Looking  thus  on  his  work  more  or  less 
as  a  whole,  it  is  a  new  influence  you  seem  to  divine  for  the 
first  time  in  the  marble  David,  a  little  faintly,  perhaps,  but 
obvious  enough  in  the  St.  George,  a  Gothic  influence  that 
appears  very  happily  for  once,  in  work  that  almost  alone  in 
Italy  seems  to  need  just  that,  well,  as  an  excuse  for  beauty. 
That  marble  statue  of  David  was  made  at  about  the  same 
time  as  the  St.  John  the  Divine,  for  the  Duomo  too,  where 
it  was  to  stand  within  the  church  in  a  chapel  there  in  the 
apse.  A  little  awkward  in  his  half-shy  pose,  the  young  David 
stands  over  the  head  of  Goliath,  uncertain  whether  to  go 
or  stay.  It  is  a  failure  which  passes  into  the  success,  the 
more  than  success  of  the  St.  George,  which  is  perhaps  his 
masterpiece.  Made  for  the  Guild  of  Armourers,  from  the 
first  day  on  which  it  was  set  up  it  has  been  beloved.  Michel- 
angelo loved  it  well,  and  Vasari  is  enthusiastic  about  it,  while 
Bocchi,  writing  in  1571,^  devotes  a  whole  book  to  it.  In  its 
present  bad  light — for  the  light  should  fall  not  across,  but 
from  in  front  and  from  above,  as  it  did  once  when  it  stood 
in  its  niche  at  Or  San  Michele — it  is  not  seen  to  advantage, 
but  even  so,  the  life  that  seems  to  move  in  the  cold  stone  may 
be  discerned.  With  a  proud  and  terrible  impetuosity  St. 
George  seems  about  to  confront  some  renowned  and  famous 
enemy,  that  old  dragon  whom  once  he  slew.  Full  of 
confidence  and  beauty  he  gazes  unafraid,  as  though  on  that 
which  he  is  about  to  encounter  before  he  moves  forward 
to  meet  it.  Well  may  Michelangelo  have  whispered 
"  March  ! "  as  he  passed  by,  it  is  the  very  order  he  awaits, 
the  whisper  of  his  own  heart.  It  is  in  this  romantic  and 
beautiful  figure  that,  as  it  seems  to  me,  that  new  Gothic 
influence  may  be  most  clearly  discerned.  M.  Reymond, 
in  his  learned  and  pleasant  book  on  Florentine  sculpture, 
has  pointed  out  the  likeness  which  this  St.  George  of  Dona- 
*  Eccellenza  della  Statua  di  S.  Giorgio  di  Donatello  :  Marescotti,  1684. 


286    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

tello  bears  to  the  St.  Theodore  of  Chartres  Cathedral,  and 
though  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  likeness,  it  seems  at 
first  almost  as  impossible  to  explain  it  It  is  true  that 
many  Italians  were  employed  in  France  in  the  building  of 
the  churches ;  it  is  equally  true  that  Michelozzo,  the  friend 
and  assistant  of  Donato,  was  the  son  of  a  Burgundian ;  but 
it  seems  as  unlikely  that  an  Italian  artist,  inspired  by  the 
French  style,  returned  from  France  to  work  in  Florence,  as 
that  Michelozzo  was  bom  with  a  knowledge  of  the  northern 
manner  which  he  never  practised.  An  explanation,  however, 
offers  itself  in  the  fact  that  the  Religious  Orders,  those 
internationalists,  continually  passed  from  North  to  South,  from 
East  to  West,  from  monastery  to  monastery,  and  that  they 
may  well  have  brought  with  them  certain  statues  in  ivory 
of  Madonna  or  the  Saints,  in  which  such  an  one  as  Donatello 
could  have  found  the  hint  he  needed.  That  such  statues 
were  known  in  Italy  is  proved  not  only  by  their  presence  in 
this  museum,  but  by  the  ivory  Madonna  of  Giovanni  Pisano 
in  the  sacristy  of  the  Duomo  at  Pisa. 

The  Marzocco  which  stood  of  old  on  the  Ringhiera  before 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio  might  seem  to  be  a  work  of  this  period, 
for  it  is  only  saved  by  a  kind  of  good  fortune  from  failure. 
It  is  without  energy  and  without  life,  but  in  its  monumental 
weight  and  a  certain  splendour  of  design  it  impresses  us  with 
a  sort  of  majesty  as  no  merely  naturalistic  study  of  a  lion 
could  do.  If  we  compare  it  for  a  moment  with  the  heraldic 
shield  in  Casa  Martelli,  where  Donato  has  carved  in  relief 
a  winged  griffin  rampant,  cruel  and  savage,  with  all  the  beauty 
and  vigour  of  Verrocchio,  we  shall  understand  something  of 
his  failure  in  the  Marzocco,  and  something,  too,  of  his  success. 
In  that  heavy  grotesque  and  fantastic  Lion  of  the  Bargello 
some  suggestion  of  the  monumental  art  of  Egypt  seems  to 
have  been  divined  for  a  moment,  but  without  understanding. 
In  the  Casa  Martelli,  too,  you  may  find  a  statue  of  St.  John 
Baptist,  a  figure  fine  and  youthful  and  melancholy,  with  the 
vague  thoughts  of  youth,  really  the  elder  brother  as  it  were 
of  the  child  of  the  Bargello,  who  bears  his  cross  like  a  delicate 


THE  BARGELLO  287 

plaything,  unaware  of  his  destiny.  That  figure,  so  full  of 
mystery,  seems  to  have  haunted  Donatello  all  his  life,  and 
then  St.  John  Baptist  was  the  patron  of  Florence  and  presided 
over  every  Baptistery  in  Italy ;  yet  it  is  always  with  a  particular 
melancholy  that  Donatello  deals  with  him,  as  though  in  his 
vague  destiny  he  had  found  as  it  were  a  vision.  The  child 
of  the  Bargello  passes  into  the  boy  of  the  Casa  Martelli,  that 
lad  who  maybe  has  heard  a  voice  sweet  enough  as  yet  while 
wandering  by  chance  on  the  mountains,  sandalled  and  clad  in 
camel's  hair.  We  see  him  again  as  the  chivalrous  youth  of 
the  Campanile,  the  dedicated,  absorbed  wanderer  of  the 
Bargello,  the  haggard,  emaciated  prophet  of  the  Friars'  Church 
at  Venice,  and  at  last  as  the  despairing  and  ancient  seer  of 
Siena,  a  voice  that  is  only  a  voice  weary  of  itself,  crying 
unheeded  in  the  wilderness.  And,  as  it  seems  to  me  in  all 
these  figures,  which  in  themselves  have  so  little  beauty,  it  is 
rather  a  mood  of  the  soul  that  Donatello  has  set  himself  to 
express  than  any  delight.  He  has  turned  away  from  physical 
beauty,  in  which  man  can  no  longer  believe,  using  the  body 
refined  almost  to  the  delicacy  and  transparency  of  a  shell,  in 
which  the  soul  may  shine,  or  at  least  be  seen,  in  all  its  moods 
of  happiness  or  terror.  That  weary  figure  who,  unconscious 
of  his  cross,  unconscious  of  the  world,  absorbed  in  his  own 
destiny,  in  the  scroll  of  his  fate,  trudges  through  the  wilderness 
without  a  thought  of  the  way,  is  as  far  from  the  ideal  abstract 
beauty  of  the  Greeks  as  from  the  romantic  splendour  of  Gothic 
art.  Only  with  him  the  soul  has  lost  touch  with  particular 
things,  even  as  the  beauty  of  the  Greeks  was  purged  of  all 
the  accidents  and  feeling  that  belonged  alone  to  the  individual. 
Like  a  ghost  he  passes  by,  intent  on  some  immortal  sorrow ; 
he  is  like  a  shadow  on  a  day  of  sun,  a  dark  cloud  over 
the  moon,  the  wind  in  the  desert.  And  in  a  moment,  we 
knew  not  why,  our  hearts  are  restless  suddenly,  we  know  not 
why  we  are  unhappy,  we  know  not  why  we  desire  to  be  where 
we  are  not,  or  only  to  forget. 

So  in  the  bronze  David  now  in  the  Bargello  we  seem  to 
see  youth  itself  dreaming  after  the  first  victory  of  all  the 


288    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

conquests  to  come,  while  a  smile  of  half-conscious  delight 
is  passing  from  the  lips ;  tyranny  is  dead.  It  is  the  first 
nude  statue  of  the  Renaissance  made  for  Cosimo  de'  Medici 
before  his  exile.  For  Cosimo,  too,  the  Amorino  was  made, 
that  study  of  pure  delight,  where  we  find  all  the  joy  of  the 
children  of  the  Cantoria,  but  without  their  unction  and 
seriousness.  And  then  in  the  portrait  busts  the  young 
Gattemalata,  and  the  terra-cotta  of  Niccolk  da  Uzzano,  we 
may  see  Donatello's  devotion  to  mere  truthfulness  without 
an  afterthought,  as  though  for  him  Truth  were  beauty  in  its 
loyalty,  at  any  rate,  to  the  impression  of  a  moment  that  for  the 
artist  is  eternity. 

His  marvellous  equestrian  statue  of  Gattemalata  is  in 
Padua,  his  tomb  and  reliefs  and  statues  lie  in  many  an 
Italian  city,  but  here  in  the  Bargello  we  have  enough  of 
his  work  to  enable  us  to  divine  something  at  least  of  his 
secret  And  this  seems  to  me  to  have  been  Donatello's 
intention  in  the  art  of  sculpture :  his  figures  are  like  gestures 
of  life,  of  the  soul,  sometimes  involuntary  and  full  of  weariness, 
sometimes  altogether  joyful,  but  always  the  expression  of  a 
mood  of  the  soul  which  is  dumb,  that  in  its  agony  or  delight 
has  in  his  work  expressed  itself  by  means  of  the  body,  so  that, 
though  he  never  carves  the  body  for  its  own  sake,  or  for  the 
sake  of  beauty,  he  is  as  faithful  in  his  study  of  it  for  the  sake 
of  the  truth,  as  he  is  in  his  study  of  those  moods  of  the  soul 
which  through  him  seem  for  the  first  time  to  have  found  an 
utterance.  His  life  was  full  of  wanderings ;  beside  the 
journey  to  Rome  with  Brunellesco  he  went  to  Siena  to 
make  the  tomb  in  the  Duomo  there  of  Bishop  Pecci  of 
Grosseto,  and  in  1433,  when  Cosimo  de'  Medici  went  into 
exile,  he  was  again  in  Rome,  and  even  in  Naples.  Returning 
to  Florence  after  no  long  time,  in  1444  he  went  to  Padua, 
where  he  worked  in  S.  Antonio  and  made  the  equestrian 
statue  that  was  the  wonder  of  the  world.  On  his  return  to 
Florence,  an  old  man,  a  certain  decadence  may  be  found  in 
his  work,  so  that  his  reliefs  in  S.  Lorenzo  are  not  altogether 
worthy  of  him,  are  perhaps  the  work  of  a  man  who  is  losing 


THE  BARGELLO  289 

his  sight  and  is  already  a  little  dependent  on  his  pupils.  One 
of  these,  Bertoldo  di  Giovanni,  who  died  in  1491,  has  left  us 
a  beautiful  relief  of  a  battle,  now  in  the  Bargello,  and  later  we 
catch  a  glimpse  of  him  in  the  garden  of  Lorenzo's  villa 
directing  the  studies  in  art  of  a  number  of  young  people, 
among  whom  was  the  youthful  Michelangelo.  But  of  the 
real  disciples  of  Donatello,  those  who,  without  necessarily 
being  his  pupils,  carried  his  art  a  step  farther,  we  know 
nothing.  His  influence  seems  to  have  died  with  him. 
Tuscan  art  after  his  death,  and  even  before  that,  had 
already  set  out  on  another  road  than  his. 

Something  of  that  expressiveness,  that  intimitis  which  Pater 
found  so  characteristic  of  Luca  della  Robbia,  seems  to  have 
inspired  all  the  sculptors  of  the  fifteenth  century  save  Dona- 
tello himself.  Not  vitality  merely,  but  a  wonderful  sort  of 
expressiveness — it  is  the  mood  of  all  their  work.  It  is  per- 
haps in  Luca  della  Robbia  and  his  school  that  we  first  come 
upon  this  strange  sweetness,  which  is  really  a  sort  of  clair- 
voyance, as  it  were,  to  the  passing  aspect  of  the  world,  of  men, 
of  the  summer  days  that  go  by  so  fast,  bringing  winter  behind 
them.  What  the  Greeks  had  striven  to  attain,  that  naturalness 
in  sculpture,  as  though  the  god  were  really  about  to  breathe 
and  put  out  its  hand,  that  wonderful  vagueness  of  Michelangelo 
akin  to  nature,  by  which  he  attained  the  same  life-giving  effect, 
a  something  more  than  mere  form,  bloomed  in  Luca's  work 
like  a  new  wild  flower.  Expression,  life,  the  power  to  express 
the  spirit  in  marble  and  terra-cotta,  these  are  what  he  really 
discovered,  and  not  the  mere  material  of  his  art,  that  painted 
earthenware,  as  Vasari  supposes. 

Of  his  two  great  works  in  marble,  the  tomb  of  Benozzo 
Federighi,  Bishop  of  Fiesole,  at  San  Miniato,  and  the  Cantoria 
for  the  Duomo,  of  his  bronze  doors  for  the  sacristy  there,  and 
his  work  on  the  Campanile,  I  speak  elsewhere ;  but  here  in 
the  Bargello,  and  all  over  Tuscany  too,  you  may  see  those 
terra-cotta  reliefs  of  Madonna,  of  the  Annunciation,  of  the 
Birth  of  our  Lord,  painted  first  just  white,  and  then  blue 
and  white,  and  later  with  many  colours  which  are  peculiar  to 
19 


290    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

him  and  his  school — could  such  flower-like  things  have  been 
bom  anywhere  but  in  Italy? — and  then,  if  you  take  them 
away  they  fade  in  the  shadows  of  the  North. 

Among  the  first  to  give  Luca  commissions  for  this  exquisite 
work  in  clay  was  Piero  de'  Medici.  For  him  Luca  decorated 
a  small  book-lined  chamber  in  the  great  Medici  palace  that 
Cosimo  had  built.  His  work  was  for  the  ceiling  and  the 
pavement,  the  ceiling  being  a  half  sphere.  For  the  hot 
summer  days  of  Italy,  when  the  streets  are  a  blaze  of  light 
and  the  sun  seems  to  embrace  the  city,  this  terra-cotta  work, 
with  its  cool  whites  and  blues,  was  particularly  delightful, 
bringing  really,  as  it  were,  something  of  the  cool  morning  sea, 
the  soft  sky,  into  a  place  confined  and  shut  in,  so  that  where 
they  were,  coolness  and  temperance  might  find  a  safe  retreat. 
And  it  was  in  such  work  as  this  that  he  found  his  fame. 
Andrea  della  Robbia,  his  nephew,  the  best  artist  of  his  school, 
follows  him,  and  after  come  a  host  of  artists,  some  little  better 
than  craftsmen,  who  add  colour  to  colour,  till  Luca's  blue  and 
white  has  been  almost  lost  amid  the  greens  and  yellows  and 
reds  which  at  last  altogether  spoil  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of 
what  was  really  as  delicate  as  a  flower  peeping  out  from  the 
shadow  into  the  sun  and  the  rain. 

But  of  one  of  the  pupils  of  Luca,  Agostino  di  Duccio, 
1 41 8-8 1  (?),  something  more  remains  than  these  fragile  and 
yet  hardy  works  in  terra-cotta.  He  has  carved  in  marble  with 
something  of  Luca's  gentleness  at  Perugia  and  Rimini.  He 
left  Florence,  it  is  said,  in  1 446,  on  a  charge  of  theft,  returning 
there  later  to  carve  the  lovely  tabernacle  of  the  Ognissanti. 
It  is  said  that  he  had  tried  unsuccessfully  to  deal  with  that 
block  of  marble  which  stood  in  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  and 
from  which  Michelangelo  unfolded  the  David.  Two  panels 
attributed  to  him  remain  in  the  Bargello,  a  Crucifixion  and  a 
Pietk,  which  scarcely  do  him  justice.  The  last  sculptor  of 
the  first  half  of  the  fifteenth  century,  his  best  work  seems  to 
me  to  be  at  Rimini,  where  he  worked  for  Sigismundo  Mala- 
testa  in  the  temple  Alberti  had  built  in  that  fierce  old  city 
by  the  sea. 


THE  BARGELLO  291 

It  is  with  the  second  half  of  the  fifteenth  century  that  the 
art  contrived  for  the  delight  of  private  persons,  for  the  decora- 
tion of  palaces,  of  chapels,  and  of  tombs,  begins.  Already 
Donatello  had  worked  for  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  and  had  made 
portrait  busts,  and,  as  it  might  seem,  the  work  of  Luca  della 
Robbia  was  especially  suited  for  private  altars  or  oratories, 
or  the  cool  rooms  of  a  people  which  had  not  yet  divided  its 
religion  from  its  life.  And  then,  in  Florence  at  any  rate,  all 
the  great  churches  were  finished,  or  almost  finished ;  it  was 
necessary  for  the  artist  to  find  other  patrons.  Among  those 
workers  in  metal  who  had  assisted  Ghiberti  when  he  cast 
the  reliefs  of  his  first  baptistery  gate  was  the  father  of  a 
man  who  had  with  his  brother  learned  the  craft  of  the 
goldsmiths.  His  name  was  Antonio  PoUajuolo.  Bom  in 
1429,  he  was  the  pupil  of  his  father  and  of  Paolo  Uccello, 
learning  from  the  latter  the  art  of  painting,  which  he  practised, 
however,  like  a  sculptor,  his  real  triumph  being,  in  that  art 
at  any  rate,  one  of  movement  and  force.  His  best  works  in 
sculpture  seem  to  me  to  be  his  tombs  of  SLxtus  iv  and 
Innocent  vii  in  S.  Pietro  in  Rome ;  but  here  in  the  Bargello 
you  may  see  the  beautiful  bust  in  terra-cotta  of  a  young 
condottiere  in  a  rich  and  splendid  armour,  and  a  little 
bronze  group  of  Hercules  and  Antaeus.  In  the  Opera  del 
Duomo  his  silver  relief  of  the  Birth  of  St.  John  Baptist  is  one 
of  the  finest  works  of  that  age ;  but  his  art  is  seen  at  its 
highest  in  that  terra-cotta  bust  here  in  the  Bargello,  perhaps 
a  sketch  for  a  bronze,  where  he  has  expressed  the  infinite  con- 
fidence and  courage  of  one  of  those  captains  of  adventure,  who, 
with  war  for  their  trade,  carried  havoc  up  and  do\\Ti  Italy. 

It  is,  however,  in  the  work  of  another  goldsmith — or  at 
least  the  pupil  of  one,  whose  name  he  took — that  we  find  the 
greatest  master  of  the  new  age,  Andrea  Verrocchio.  Born  in 
1435,  and  dead  in  1488,  he  was  preoccupied  all  his  life  with 
the  fierce  splendour  of  his  art,  the  subtle  sweetness  that  he 
drew  from  the  strength  of  his  work.  The  master,  certainly, 
of  Lorenzo  di  Credi  and  Leonardo,  and  finally  of  Perugino 
also,  he  was  a  painter  as  well  as  a  sculptor  j  and  though  his 


292    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

greatest  work  was  achieved  in  marble  and  bronze,  one  cannot 
lightly  pass  by  the  Annunciation  of  the  Uffizi,  or  the  Baptism 
of  the  Accademia.  Neglected  for  so  long,  he  is  at  last 
recognised  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  all  Italian  masters  of  the 
Renaissance. 

The  pupil  of  a  goldsmith  practising  the  craft  of  a  founder, 
he  cast  the  sacristy  gates  of  the  Duomo  for  Luca  della  Robbia. 
In  sculpture  he  appears  to  have  studied  under  Donatello, 
though  his  work  shows  little  of  his  influence ;  and  working,  as 
we  may  suppose,  with  his  master  in  S.  Lorenzo,  he  made  the 
bronze  plaque  for  the  tomb  of  Cosimo  there  before  the  choir, 
and  the  monument  of  Piero  and  Giovanni  de'  Medici  beside 
the  door  of  the  sacristy.  It  was  again  for  Lorenzo  de'  Medici 
that  he  made  the  exquisite  Child  and  Dolphin  now  in  the 
court  of  Palazzo  Vecchio,  and  the  statue  of  the  young  David 
now  in  Bargello.  The  subtle  grace  and  delight  of  this  last 
seem  not  uncertainly  to  suggest  the  strange  and  lovely  work 
of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  There  for  the  first  time  you  may 
discern  the  smile  that  is  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  in  Leonardo's 
shadowy  pictures.  More  perfect  in  craftsmanship  and  in  the 
knowledge  of  anatomy  than  Donatello,  Verrocchio  here,  where 
he  seems  almost  to  have  been  inspired  by  the  David  of  his 
master,  surpasses  him  in  energy  and  beauty,  and  while  Dona- 
tello's  figure  is  involved  with  the  head  of  Goliath,  so  that  the 
feet  are  lost  in  the  massive  and  almost  shapeless  bronze, 
Verrocchio's  David  stands  clear  of  the  grim  and  monstrous 
thing  at  his  feet.  Simpler,  too,  and  less  uncertain  is  the 
whole  pose  of  the  figure,  who  is  in  no  doubt  of  himself,  and 
in  his  heart  he  has  already  "  slain  his  thousands." 

In  the  portrait  of  Monna  Vanna  degli  Albizi,  the  Lady  with 
the  Flowers,  Verrocchio  is  the  author  of  the  most  beautiful 
bust  of  the  Renaissance.  She  fills  the  room  with  sunshine, 
and  all  day  long  she  seems  to  whisper  some  beloved  name. 
A  smile  seems  ever  about  to  pass  over  her  face  under  her 
clustering  hair,  and  she  has  folded  her  beautiful  hands  on  her 
bosom,  as  though  she  were  afraid  of  their  beauty  and  would 
live  ever  in  their  shadow. 


T    i;       I    All'.      Willi      llll       -.o-l  1  ,A\     (\  ANN  A     I  i  1 1.  N  A  r  i    ■  'N  I     ) 


THE  BARGELLO  293 

In  two  reliefs  of  Madonna  and  Child,  one  in  marble  and 
one  in  terra-cotta,  you  find  that  strange  smile  again,  not,  as 
with  Leonardo,  some  radiance  of  the  soul  visible  for  a 
moment  on  the  lips,  but  the  smile  of  a  mother  happy  with 
her  little  son.  In  the  two  Tornabuoni  reliefs  that  we  find  here 
too  in  the  Bargello,  it  is  not  Verrocchio's  hand  we  see ;  but 
in  the  group  of  Christ  and  St.  Thomas  at  Or  San  Michele,  and 
in  the  fierce  and  splendid  equestrian  statue  of  Bartolomeo 
CoUeoni  at  Venice,  you  see  him  at  his  best,  occupied  with  a 
subtle  beauty  long  sought  out,  and  with  an  expression  of  the 
fierce  ardour  and  passion  that  consumed  him  all  his  life. 
He  touches  nothing  that  does  not  live  with  an  ardent  splen- 
dour and  energy  of  spirit  because  of  him.  If  he  makes  only 
a  leaf  of  bronze  for  a  tomb,  it  seems  to  quiver  under  his 
hands  with  an  inextinguishable  vitality. 

Softly  beside  him,  untouched  by  the  passion  of  his  style, 
grew  all  the  lovely  but  less  passionate  works  of  the  sculptors 
in  marble,  the  sweet  and  almost  winsome  monuments  01 
the  dead.  Bernardo  Rossellino,  born  in  1409,  his  elder  by 
more  than  twenty  years,  died  more  than  twenty  years  before 
him,  in  1464,  carving,  among  other  delightful  things,  the 
lovely  Annunciation  at  Empoli,  the  delicate  monument  ot 
Beata  Villana  in  S.  Maria  Novella,  and  creating  once  for  all, 
in  the  tomb  of  Leonardo  Bruni  in  S.  Croce,  the  perfect 
pattern  of  such  things,  which  served  as  an  example  to  all  the 
Tuscan  sculptors  who  followed,  till  Michelangelo  hewed  the 
great  monuments  in  the  Sacristy  of  S.  Lorenzo.  His  brother 
Antonio,  born  in  1427,  worked  with  him  at  Pistoja  certainly 
in  the  tomb  of  Filippo  Lazzari  in  S.  Domenico,  surpassing 
him  as  a  sculptor,  under  the  influence  of  Desiderio  da 
Settignano.  His  finest  work  is  the  beautiful  tomb  in  S. 
Miniato  of  the  young  Cardinal  of  Portugal,  who  died  on  a 
journey  to  Florence.  In  that  strange  and  lovely  place  there 
is  nothing  more  beautiful  than  that  monument  under  the 
skyey  work  of  Luca  della  Robbia,  before  the  faintly  coloured 
frescoes  of  Alessio  Baldovinetti.  Under  a  vision  of  Madonna 
borne  by  angels  from  heaven,  where  two  angels  stoop,  half 


294    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

kneeling,  on  guard,  the  young  Cardinal  steeps,  supported  by 
two  heavenly  children,  his  hands — those  delicate  hands — folded 
in  death.  Below,  on  a  frieze  at  the  base  of  the  tomb,  Antonio 
has  carved  all  sorts  of  strange  and  beautiful  things — a  skull 
among  the  flowers  over  a  garland  harnessed  to  two  unicorns ; 
angels  too,  youthful  and  strong,  lifting  the  funeral  vases.  At 
Naples,  too,  he  carved  the  altar  of  the  Cappella  Piccolomini 
in  S.  Maria  at  Montoliveto.  Here  in  the  Bargello  some 
fragments  of  beautiful  things  have  been  gathered — a  tabernacle 
with  two  adoring  angels,  a  little  St.  John  made  in  1477  for  the 
Opera,  a  relief  of  the  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds,  another  of 
Madonna  in  an  almond-shaped  glory  of  cherubim,  and,  last  of 
all,  the  splendid  busts  of  Matteo  Palmieri  and  Francesco 
Sassetti ;  but  his  masterpiece  in  pure  sculpture  is  the  S. 
Sebastian  in  the  CoUegiata  at  Empoli,  a  fair  and  youthful 
figure  without  the  affectation  and  languor  that  was  so  soon 
to  fall  upon  him. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  of  these  sculptors  in  marble,  whose 
works,  as  winsome  as  wild  flowers,  are  scattered  over  the 
Tuscan  hills,  was  Desiderio  da  Settignano,  bom  in  1428. 
He  had  worked  with  Donatello  in  the  Pazzi  Chapel,  and  his 
tabernacle  in  the  chapel  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  in  S. 
Lorenzo  is  one  of  the  most  charming  things  left  in  that 
museum  of  Tuscan  work.  Of  his  beautiful  tomb  of  Carlo 
Marsuppini  in  S.  Croce  I  speak  elsewhere  :  it  is  worthy  of  its 
fellows — Bernardo  Rosellino's  tomb  of  Leonardo  Bruni  in  the 
same  church,  and  the  tomb  of  the  Cardinal  of  Portugal  by 
Antonio  Rossellino  at  S.  Miniato.  Desiderio  has  not  the 
energy  of  Rossellino  or  the  passionate  ardour  of  Verrocchio. 
He  searches  for  a  quiet  beauty  full  of  serenity  and  delight. 
His  work  in  the  Bargello  is  of  little  account.  The  bust  of  a 
girl  (No.  198  in  the  fifth  room  on  the  top  floor)  is  but 
doubtfully  his :  Vasari  speaks  only  of  the  bust  of  Marietta 
Strozzi,  now  in  Berlin.  He  died  in  1464,  and  his  work,  so 
rare,  so  refined  and  delicate  in  its  beauty,  comes  to  its  own 
in  the  perfect  achievement  of  Benedetto  da  Maiano,  bom  in 
1442,  who  made  the  pulpit  of  S.  Croce,  the  ciborium  of  S. 


THE  BARGELLO  295 

Domenico  in  Siena.  It  was  for  Pietro  Mellini  that  he  carved 
the  pulpit  of  S.  Croce,  and  here  in  the  Bargello  we  may  see 
the  bust  he  made  of  his  patron.  In  his  youth  he  had  carved 
in  wood,  and  worked  at  the  intarsia  work  so  characteristic  a 
craft  of  the  fifteenth  century ;  but  on  bringing  some  coffers  of 
this  work  to  the  King  of  Hungary,  Vasari  relates  that  he 
found  they  had  fallen  to  pieces  on  the  voyage,  and  ever  after 
he  preferred  to  work  in  marble.  Having  acquired  a  competence, 
of  this  too  he  seems  to  have  tired,  devoting  himself  to 
architectural  work — porticos,  altars,  and  such — buying  an  estate 
at  last  outside  the  gate  of  Prato  that  is  towards  Florence ; 
dying  in  1497. 

It  is  with  a  prolific  master,  Mino  da  Fiesole,  the  last  pupil, 
according  to  Vasari,  of  Desiderio  da  Settignano,  that  the 
delicate  and  flower-like  work  of  the  Tuscan  sculptors  may  be 
said  to  pass  into  a  still  lovely  decadence.  His  facile  work  is 
found  all  over  Italy.  The  three  busts  of  the  Bargello  are 
among  his  earliest  and  best  works — the  Piero  de'  Medici,  the 
Giuliano  de'  Medici,  and  the  small  bust  of  Rinaldo  della 
Luna.  There,  too,  are  two  reliefs  from  his  hand,  and  some 
tabernacles  which  have  no  great  merit.  A  relief  of  the 
Madonna  and  Child  is  a  finer  achievement  in  his  earlier 
manner,  and  in  the  Duomo  of  Fiesole  there  remains  a  bust  of 
Leonardo  Salutati.  The  Bishop  in  the  same  chapel,  with  an 
altar  and  relief,  all  from  his  hand,  seem  to  prove  that  it  was 
only  a  fatal  facility  that  prevented  him  from  becoming  as  fine 
an  artist  as  Benedetto  da  Maiano. 

With  Andrea  Sansovino,  born  in  1460,  we  come  to  the  art 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  very  noble  and  beautiful,  at  any  rate 
in  its  beginning,  but  so  soon  to  pass  into  a  mere  affectation. 
The  pupil,  according  to  Vasari,  of  Antonio  Pollaiuolo, 
Sansovino's  work  is  best  seen  in  Rome.  Here  in  Florence 
he  made  in  his  youth  the  altar  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  in 
the  left  transept  of  S.  Spirito,  and  in  1502  the  Baptism  of 
Christ,  over  the  eastern  gates  of  the  Baptistery,  but  this  was 
finished  by  another  hand.  And  there  followed  him  Benedetto 
da  Rovezzano,  whose  style  has  become  classical,  the  sculptor 


296    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

of  every  sort  of  lovely  furniture, — mantelpieces,  tabernacles,  and 
such, — yet  in  the  beautiful  reliefs  of  the  life  of  S.  Giovanni 
Gualberto  you  see  the  work  of  the  sixteenth  century  at  its 
best,  without  the  freshness  and  delicate  charm  of  fifteenth- 
century  sculpture,  but  exquisite  enough  in  its  perfect  skill,  its 
real  achievement. 

There  follows  Michelangelo  (1475-1564).  It  is  with  a 
sort  of  surprise  one  comes  face  to  face  with  that  sorrowful, 
heroic  figure,  as  though,  following  among  the  flowers,  we 
had  come  upon  some  tragic  precipice,  some  immense  cavern 
too  deep  for  sight.  How,  after  the  delight,  the  delicate  charm 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  can  I  speak  of  this  beautiful,  strong, 
and  tragic  soul?  It  might  almost  seem  that  the  greatest 
Italian  of  the  sixteenth  century  has  left  us  in  sculpture 
little  more  than  an  immortal  gesture  of  despair,  of  despair 
of  a  world  which  he  has  not  been  content  to  love.  His 
work  is  beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  the  motmtains,  of  the 
mountains  in  which  he  alone  has  found  the  spirit  of  man. 
His  figures,  half  unveiled  from  the  living  rock,  are  like  some 
terrible  indictment  of  the  world  he  lived  in,  and  in  a  sort  of 
rage  at  its  uselessness  he  leaves  them  unfinished,  and  it  but 
half  expressed ; — an  indictment  of  himself  too,  of  his  own 
heart,  of  his  contempt  for  things  as  they  are.  Yet  in  his 
youth  he  had  been  content  with  beauty — in  the  lovely  Pietk 
of  S.  Pietro,  for  instance,  where,  on  the  robe  of  Mary,  alone 
in  all  his  work  he  has  placed  his  name ;  or  in  the  statue  of 
Bacchus,  now  here  in  the  Bargello,  sleepy,  half  drunken  with 
wine  or  with  visions,  the  eyelids  heavy  with  dreams,  the  cup 
still  in  his  hand.  But  already  in  the  David  his  trouble  is 
come  upon  him ;  the  sorrow  that  embittered  his  life  has  been 
foreseen,  and  in  a  sort  of  protest  against  the  enslavement  of 
Florence,  that  nest  where  he  was  born,  he  creates  this  hero, 
who  seems  to  be  waiting  for  some  tyranny  to  declare  itself. 
The  Brutus,  unfinished  as  we  say,  to-day  in  the  Bargello,  he 
refused  to  touch  again,  since  that  city  which  was  made  for  a 
thousand  lovers,  as  he  said,  had  been  enjoyed  by  one  only, 
some  Medici  against  whom,  as  we  know,  he  was  ready  to 


THE  BARGELLO  297 

fight.  If  in  the  beautiful  relief  of  Madonna  you  find  a 
sweetness  and  strength  that  is  altogether  without  bitterness 
or  indignation,  it  is  not  any  religious  consolation  you  find 
there,  but  such  comfort  rather  as  life  may  give  when  in  a 
moment  of  inward  tragedy  we  look  on  the  stars  or  watch  a 
mother  with  her  little  son.  What  secret  and  immortal  sorrow 
and  resentment  are  expressed  in  those  strange  and  beautiful 
figures  of  the  tombs  in  the  Sacristy  of  S.  Lorenzo !  The 
names  we  have  given  them  are,  as  Pater  has  said,  too  definite 
for  them ;  they  suggest  more  than  we  know  how  to  express  of 
our  thoughts  concerning  life,  so  that  for  once  the  soul  of  man 
seems  there  to  have  taken  form  and  turned  to  stone.  The 
unfinished  Pietk  in  the  Duomo,  it  is  said,  he  carved  for  his 
own  grave :  like  so  much  of  his  great,  tragical  work,  it  is 
unfinished,  unfinished  though  everything  he  did  was  complete 
from  the  beginning.  For  he  is  like  the  dawn  that  brings  with 
it  noon  and  evening,  he  is  like  the  day  which  will  pass  into 
the  night.  In  him  the  spirit  of  man  has  stammered  the 
syllables  of  eternity,  and  in  its  agony  of  longing  or  sorrow 
has  failed  to  speak  only  the  word  love.  All  things  particular 
to  the  individual,  all  that  is  small  or  of  little  account,  that 
endures  but  for  a  moment,  have  been  purged  away,  so  that 
Life  itself  may  make,  as  it  were,  an  immortal  gesticulation, 
almost  monstrous  in  its  passionate  intensity — a  mirage  seen 
on  the  mountains,  a  shadow  on  the  snow.  And  after  him,  and 
long  before  his  death,  there  came  Baccio  Bandinelli  and  the 
rest,  Cellini  the  goldsmith,  Giovanni  da  Bologna,  and  the 
sculptors  of  the  decadence  that  has  lasted  till  our  own  day. 
With  him  Italian  art  seems  to  have  been  hurled  out  of 
heaven;  henceforth  his  followers  stand  on  the  brink  of 
Pandemonium,  making  the  frantic  gestures  of  fallen  gods. 


XXII 
FLORENCE 

ACCADEMIA 

FLORENTINE  art,  that  had  expressed  itself  so  charmingly, 
and  at  last  so  passionately  and  profoundly,  in  sculpture, 
where  design,  drawing,  that  integrity  of  the  plastic  artist,  is 
everything,  and  colour  almost  nothing  at  all,  shows  itself  in 
painting,  where  it  is  most  characteristic,  either  as  the  work  of 
those  who  were  sculptors  themselves,  or  had  at  least  learned  from 
them — Giotto,  Orcagna,  Masaccio,  the  Pollaiuoli,  Verrocchio, 
and  Michelangelo — or  in  such  work  as  that  of  Fra  Angelico, 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  Botticelli,  and  Leonardo,  where  painting 
seems  to  pass  into  poetry,  into  a  canticle  or  a  hymn,  a 
Trionfo  or  some  strange,  far-away,  sweet  music.  The  whole 
impulse  of  this  art  lies  in  the  intellect  rather  than  in  the 
senses,  is  busied  continually  in  discussing  life  rather  than  in 
creating  it,  in  discussing  one  by  one  the  secrets  of  movement, 
of  expression  ;  always  more  eager  to  find  new  forms  for  ideas 
than  to  create  just  life  itself  in  all  its  splendour  and  shadow, 
as  Venice  was  content  to  do.  Thus,  while  Florence  was  the 
most  influential  school  of  art  in  Italy,  her  greatest  sons  do 
not  seem  altogether  to  belong  to  her :  Leonardo,  a  wanderer 
all  his  life,  founds  his  school  in  Milan,  and  dies  at  last  in 
France ;  Michelangelo  becomes  almost  a  Roman  painter,  the 
sculptor,  the  architect  in  paint  of  the  Sistine  Chapel ;  while 
Andrea  del  Sarto  appears  from  the  first  as  a  foreigner,  the  one 
colourist  of  the  school,  only  a  Florentine  in  this,  that  much  of 
his  work  is,  as  it  were,  monumental,  composing  itself  really — as 

206 


ACCADEMIA  299 

with  the  Madonna  delle  Arpie  or  the  great  Madonna  and  Saints 
of  the  Pitti,  for  instance — into  statuesque  groups,  into  sculpture. 
So  if  we  admit  that  Leonardo  and  Michelangelo  were  rather 
universal  than  Florentine,  the  most  characteristic  work  of  the 
school  lies  in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  in  the  work 
of  Giotto,  so  full  of  great,  simple  thoughts  of  life ;  in  that  of 
the  Pollaiuoli,  so  full  of  movement ;  but  most  of  all  perhaps 
in  the  work  of  Angelico,  Lippo  Lippi,  and  Botticelli,  where  the 
significance  of  life  has  passed  into  beauty,  into  music. 

The  rise  of  this  school,  so  full  of  importance  for  Italy,  for 
the  world,  is  very  happily  illustrated  in  the  Accademia  della 
Belle  Arti;  and  if  the  galleries  of  the  Uffizi  can  show  a 
greater  number  of  the  best  works  of  the  Florentine  painters, 
together  with  much  else  that  is  foreign  to  them  ;  if  the  Pitti 
Palace  is  richer  in  masterpieces,  and  possesses  some  works  of 
Raphael's  Florentine  period  and  the  pictures  of  Fra  Bartolomeo 
and  Andrea  del  Sarto,  as  well  as  a  great  collection  of  the  work 
of  the  other  Italian  schools,  it  is  really  in  the  Accademia 
we  may  study  best  the  rise  of  the  Florentine  school  itself, 
finding  there  not  only  the  work  of  Giotto,  his  predecessors 
and  disciples,  but  the  pictures  of  Fra  Angelico,  of  Verrocchio, 
of  Filippo  Lippi,  of  Botticelli,  the  painters  of  that  fifteenth 
century  which,  as  Pater  has  told  us,  "  can  hardly  be  studied 
too  much,  not  merely  for  its  positive  results  in  the  things  of 
the  intellect  and  the  imagination,  its  concrete  works  of  art,  its 
special  and  prominent  personalities  with  their  profound 
aesthetic  charm,  but  for  its  general  spirit  and  character,  for  the 
ethical  qualities  of  which  it  is  a  consummate  type." 

The  art  of  the  Sculptors  had  been  able  to  free  itself  from 
the  beautiful  but  sterile  convention  of  the  Byzantine  masters 
earlier  than  the  art  of  Painting,  because  it  had  found  certain 
fragments  of  antiquity  scattered  up  and  down  Southern  Italy, 
and  in  such  a  place  as  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  to  which 
it  might  turn  for  guidance  and  inspiration.  No  such  forlorn 
beauty  remained  in  exile  to  renew  the  art  of  painting.  All 
the  pictures  of  antiquity  had  been  destroyed,  and  though  in 
such  work  as  that  of  the  Cavallini  and  their  school  at  Assisi 


300  FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

there  may  be  found  a  faint  memory  of  the  splendour  that  had 
so  unfortunately  passed  away,  it  is  rather  the  shadow  of  the 
statues  we  find  there — in  the  Abraham  of  the  upper  church  of 
S.  Francesco,  for  instance — than  the  more  lyrical  and  mortal 
loveliness  of  the  unknown  painters  of  Imperial  Rome.  Yet  it 
is  there,  in  that  lonely  and  beautiful  church  full  of  the  soft 
sweet  light  of  Umbria,  that  Giotto  perhaps  learned  all  that  was 
needed  to  enable  him  not  only  to  recreate  the  art  of  painting, 
but  to  decide  its  future  in  Italy. 

Here  in  the  Accademia  in  the  Sala  dei  Maestri  Toscani 
you  may  see  an  altarpiece  that  has  perhaps  come  to  us  from 
his  hands,  amid  much  beautiful  languid  work  that  is  still  in 
the  shadow  of  the  Middle  Age,  or  that,  coming  after  him,  has 
almost  failed  to  understand  his  message,  the  words  of  life 
which  may  everywhere  be  found  in  his  frescoes  in  Assisi,  in 
Florence,  in  Padua,  spoiled  though  they  be  by  the  intervention 
of  fools,  the  spoliation  of  the  vandals. 

Those  strange  and  lovely  altarpieces  ruthlessly  torn  from 
the  convents  and  churches  of  Tuscany  still  keep  inviolate  the 
secret  of  those  who,  not  without  tears,  made  them  for  the  love 
of  God  :  once  for  sure  they  made  a  sunshine  in  some  shadowy 
place.  Hung  here  to-day  in  a  museum,  just  so  many 
specimens  that  we  number  and  set  in  order,  they  seem  rude 
and  fantastic  enough,  and  in  the  cold  light  of  this  salone, 
crowded  together  like  so  much  furniture,  they  have  lost  all 
meaning  or  intention.  They  are  dead,  and  we  gaze  at  them 
almost  with  contempt ;  they  will  never  move  us  again.  That 
rude  and  almost  terrible  picture  of  Madonna  and  Saints  with 
its  little  scenes  from  the  life  of  our  Lord,  stolen  from  the 
Franciscan  convent  of  S.  Chiara  at  Lucca,  what  is  it  to  us  who 
pass  by  ?  Yet  once  |it  listened  for  the  prayers  of  the  little 
nuns  of  S.  Francis,  and,  who  knows,  may  have  heard  the 
very  voice  of  II  Poverello.  That  passionate  and  dreadful 
picture  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen  covered  by  her  hair  as  with  a  robe 
of  red  gold,  does  it  move  us  at  all  ?  Will  it  explain  to  us  the 
rise  of  Florentine  painting  ?  And  you,  O  learned  archaeologist, 
you,  O  scientific  critic,  you,  O  careless  and  curious  tourist, 


ACCADEMIA  301 

will  it  bring  you  any  comfort  to  read  (if  you  can)  the 
inscription — 

"Ne  desperetis,  vos  qui  peccare  soletis 
Exemploque  meo  vos  reperate  Deo." 

Those  small  pictures  of  the  life  of  St.  Mary,  which  surround 
her  still  with  their  beauty,  do  you  even  know  what  they  mean  ? 
And  if  you  do,  are  they  any  more  :o  you  than  an  idle  tale,  a 
legend,  which  has  lost  even  its  meaning  ?  No,  we  look  at  these 
faint  and  far-off  things  merely  with  curiosity  as  a  botanist  looks 
through  his  albums,  like  one  who  does  not  know  flowers. 

Then  there  is  the  great  altarpiece  attributed  to  Cimabue 
about  which  the  critics  have  been  so  eloquent,  till  under 
their  hands  Cimabue  has  vanished  into  a  mere  legend ;  and 
Madonna  too,  is  she  now  any  more  than  a  tale  that  is  told  ? 
Beside  it  you  find  another  altarpiece  which  they  agree  together 
is  really  from  the  hand  of  Giotto,  though  with  how  much 
intervention  and  repainting ;  but  they  confess  too  that  there 
is  little  to  be  learnt  from  it,  since  Giotto  may  be  seen  to  better 
advantange  and  more  truly  himself  in  his  frescoes,  which  yet 
remain  in  the  churches  as  of  old.  And  it  is  for  this  we  have 
robbed  the  lowly  and  stolen  away  the  images  of  their 
gods. 

Giotto,  with  his  superb  grip  of  reality,  has  decided  the 
future  of  Italian  painting.  It  is  a  lesser  because  a  merely 
imitative  art,  conventional  too,  that  you  see  in  the  work  of 
Taddeo  Gaddi  and  the  Madonna  and  Child  with  six  saints  of 
his  son  Agnolo,  or  the  Entombment  ascribed  to  Taddeo  but 
really  the  work  of  an  inferior  painter,  Niccola  di  Pietro  Gerini 
from  Or  San  Michele.  A  host  of  painters,  "  the  Giottesques," 
as  we  may  call  them,  followed  :  Puccio  Capanna,  Buffalmacco, 
Francesco  da  Volterra,  Stefano,  Fiorentino,  the  grandson  of 
Giotto,  Giottino,  and  Spinello  Aretino,  all  of  whom  were 
painting  about  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  in 
Giotto's  manner  but  without  his  genius,  or,  as  it  might  seem, 
any  true  understanding  of  his  art.  The  gradual  passing  of 
this    derivative   work,    the    prophecy    of    such    painters    as 


302    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Masolino,  Masaccio,  and  Fra  Angelico  may  be  found  in  the 
work  of  Orcagna,  of  Antonio  Veneziano,  and  Stamina,  and 
possibly  too  in  the  better-preserved  paintings  of  Lorenzo 
Monaco  of  the  order  of  S.  Romuald  of  Camaldoli. 

Andrea  Orcagna  was  born  about  1308.  He  was  a  man  of 
almost  universal  genius,  and  in  another  and  more  fortunate 
age  might  have  achieved  a  great  renown.  His  altarpiece  in 
S.  Maria  Novella  is  almost  all  that  remains  to  us  of  his  painting, 
and  splendid  though  it  be,  it  is  perhaps  spoiled  for  us  by  a 
later  hand  than  his.  In  the  Accademia  here  there  is  a  Vision 
of  St.  Bernard  (No.  1 38),  faint,  it  is  true,  but  still  soft  and 
charming  in  colour,  while  in  the  Uffizi  there  is  in  the  corridor 
an  altarpiece  with  St.  Matthew  in  the  midst  that  is  certainly 
partially  his  own.  Nothing  at  all  remains  to  us  of  the  work 
of  Stamina,  the  master  of  Masolino,  and  thus  we  lose  the  link 
which  should  connect  the  art  of  Giotto  and  the  Giottesques 
with  the  art  of  Masolino  and  Angelico.^  It  was  about  the  same 
time  as  Stamina  was  painting  in  the  chapel  of  S.  Girolamo  at 
the  Carmine  that  Lorenzo  Monaco  was  working  in  the  manner  of 
Agnolo  Gaddi.  His  work  is  beautiful  by  reason  of  its  delicacy 
and  gentleness,  but  it  is  so  completely  in  the  old  manner  that 
Vasari  gives  his  altarpiece  of  the  Annunciation  now  here  in  the 
Accademia  (No.  143)  to  Giotto,  praising  that  master  for  the 
tremulous  sweetness  of  Madonna  as  she  shrinks  before  the 
Announcing  Angel  just  about  to  alight  from  heaven.  It  is  a 
very  different  scene  you  come  upon  in  his  altarpiece  in  S. 
Trinita,  where  Gabriel,  his  beautiful  wings  furled,  has  already 
fallen  on  his  knees,  and  our  Lord  Himself,  still  among  the 
Cherubim,  speeds  the  Dove  to  Mary,  who  has  looked  up  from 
her  book  suddenly  in  an  ecstasy. 

No  work  that  we  possess  of  the  fourteenth  century,  save 
Giotto's,  prepares  us  for  the  frescoes  of  Masolino  :  they  must 
be  sought  in  the  Brancacci  Chapel  of  the  Carmine.  But  of 
the  work  of  Masaccio  his  pupil,  though  his  best  work  remains 
in  the  same  place,  there  may  be  found  here  in  the  Accademia 

'  Cf.  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  History  of  Painting  in  Italy,  1903,  vol.  ii. 
p.  290. 


N    OI-      I  llh:    -.III-  IHI 


ACCADEMIA  303 

an  early  altarpiece  of  Madonna  and  Child  with  St.  Anne 
(Sala  IV,  No.  70).  Born  in  1401,  dying  when  he  was  but 
twenty-seven  years  of  age,  he  recreated  for  himself  that  reality 
in  painting  which  it  had  been  the  chief  business  of  Giotto  to 
discover.  Influenced  by  Donatello,  his  work  is  almost  as 
immediate  as  that  of  sculpture.  Impressive  and  full  of  an 
energy  that  seems  to  be  life  itself,  his  figures  have  almost  the 
sense  of  reality.  "I  feel,"  says  Mr.  Berenson,  "that  I  could 
touch  every  figure,  that  it  would  yield  a  definite  resistance  .  .  . 
that  I  could  walk  round  it."  There  follow  Paolo  Uccello, 
whose  work  will  be  found  in  the  Uffizi,  and  Andrea  del 
Castagno,  who  painted  the  equestrian  portrait  of  Niccolo  da 
Tolentino  in  the  Duomo,  and  the  frescoes  in  S.  Apollonia. 

Thus  we  come  really  into  the  midst  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
to  the  work  of  Fra  Angelico,  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  and  Botticelli, 
which  we  have  loved  so  much. 

It  is  really  the  Middle  Age,  quite  expressed  for  once, 
by  one  who,  standing  a  little  way  off  perhaps,  could  almost 
scorn  it,  that  we  come  upon  in  Gentile  da  Fabriano's  picture, 
on  an  easel  here,  of  the  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds.  It  is 
one  of  the  loveliest  of  all  early  Umbrian  pictures,  full  of  a 
new  kind  of  happiness  that  is  about  to  discover  the  world. 
And  if  with  Gentile  we  seem  to  look  back  on  the  Middle  Age 
from  the  very  dawn  of  the  Renaissance,  it  is  the  Renaissance 
itself,  the  most  simple  and  divine  work  it  achieved  in  its 
earliest  and  best  days,  that  we  see  in  the  work  of  Fra  Angelico. 
One  beautiful  and  splendid  picture,  the  Descent  from  the  Cross, 
alas  !  repainted,  stands  near  Gentile's  Adoration,  among  several 
later  pictures,  of  which  certainly  the  loveliest  is  a  gentle  and 
serene  work  by  Domenico  Ghirlandajo,  an  Adoration  of  the 
Shepherds ;  but  the  greater  part  of  Angelico's  work  to  be 
found  here  is  in  another  room.  There,  in  many  little  pictures, 
you  may  see  the  world  as  Paradise,  the  very  garden  where 
God  talked  with  Adam.  Or  he  will  tell  us  the  story  of  S. 
Cosmas  and  S.  Damian,  those  good  saints  who  despised  gold, 
so  that  with  their  brethren  they  were  cast  into  a  furnace,  but 
the  beautiful  bright  flames  curled  and  leaped  away  from  them 


304    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

as  at  the  breath  of  God,  licking  feverishly  at  the  persecutors, 
who  with  iron  forks  try  to  thrust  the  faggots  nearer,  while 
one  hides  from  the  heat  of  the  fire  behind  his  shield,  and 
another,  already  dead,  is  consumed  by  the  flames.  Above,  in 
a  gallery  of  marble,  decked  with  beautiful  rugs  and  hangings 
of  needlework,  the  sultan  looks  on  astonished  amid  his 
courtiers.  Or  it  is  the  story  of  our  Lord  he  tells  us :  how 
in  the  evening  Mary  set  out  from  Nazareth  mounted  on  a 
mule,  her  little  son  in  her  arms,  Joseph  following  afoot,  with 
a  pipkin  for  the  fire  in  the  wilderness,  and  a  fiasco  of  wine 
lest  they  be  thirsty,  a  great  stick  over  his  shoulder  for  the 
difficult  way,  and  a  cloak  too,  for  our  Lady.  Or  it  is  the 
Annunciation  he  shows  us :  how  in  the  dawn  of  that  day  of 
days,  his  bright  wings  still  tremulous  with  flight,  Gabriel  fell 
like  a  snowflake  in  the  garden,  in  the  silence  of  the  cypresses 
between  two  little  loggias,  light  and  fair,  where  Madonna  was 
praying ;  far  and  far  away  in  the  faint  clear  sky  the  Dove 
hovers,  that  is  the  Spirit  of  God,  the  Desire  of  all  Nations. 
Or  it  is  Hosanna  he  sings,  when  Christ  rides  under  the 
stripped  palms  into  Jerusalem,  while  the  people  strew  the 
way  with  branches.  Or  again  he  will  tell  us  of  Paradise, 
beneath  whose  towers,  in  a  garden  of  wild  flowers,  the  saints 
dance  with  the  angels,  crowned  with  garlands,  in  the  light  that 
streams  through  the  gates  of  heaven  from  the  throne  of  God. 

How  may  we  rightly  speak  of  such  a  man,  who  in  his 
simplicity  has  seen  angels  on  the  hills  of  Tuscany,  the 
flowers  and  trees  of  our  world  scattered  in  heaven?  Truly 
his  master  is  unknown,  for,  as  perhaps  he  was  too  simple  to 
say,  St.  Luke  taught  him  in  an  idle  hour,  after  the  vision  of 
the  Annunciation,  when  he  was  tired  of  writing  the  Magnificat 
of  Mary  :  and  Angelico  was  his  only  pupil.  That  such  things 
as  these  could  come  out  of  the  cloister  is  not  so  marvellous 
as  that,  since  they  grew  there,  we  should  have  suppressed  the 
convents  and  turned  the  friars  away.  For  just  as  the  lily  of 
art  towered  first  and  broke  into  blossom  on  the  grave  of  St. 
Francis,  so  here  in  the  convent  of  S.  Marco  of  the  Dominicans 
was  one  who  for  the  first  time  seems  to  have  seen  the  world, 


ACCADEMIA  305 

the  very  byways  and  hills  of  Tuscany,  and  dreamed  of  them 
as  heaven. 

It  was  another  friar  who  was,  as  it  were,  to  people 
that  world,  a  little  more  human  perhaps,  a  little  less  than 
Paradise,  which  Angelico  had  seen ;  to  people  it  at  least  with 
children,  little  laughing  rascals  from  the  street  comer,  caught 
with  a  soldo  and  turned  into  angels.  Another  friar,  but 
how  different.  The  story,  so  romantic,  so  full  of  laughter  and 
tears,  that  Vasari  has  told  us  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  is  one  of 
his  best  known  pages ;  I  shall  not  tell  it  again.  Four  little 
panels  painted  by  him  are  here  in  this  room,  beside  the  work 
of  Fra  Angelico.  While  not  far  away  you  come  upon  two 
splendid  studies  by  Perugino  of  two  monks  of  the  Vallam- 
brosa,  Dom  Biagio  Milanesi  and  Dom  Baldassare,  the  finest 
portraits  he  ever  painted,  and  in  some  sort  his  most  living 
work.^  Four  other  works  by  Perugino  may  also  be  found 
here, — the  Assumption  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  a  Pietk,  and 
the  Agony  in  the  Garden  in  the  Sala  di  Perugino,  a 
Crucifixion  in  the  Sala  di  Botticelli.  The  Assumption  was 
painted  at  Vallambrosa  late  in  the  year  1500,  and  is  a 
fine  piece  of  work  in  Perugino's  more  mannered  style. 
Above,  God  the  Father,  in  a  glory  of  cherubim  with  a 
worshipping  angel  on  either  side,  blesses  Madonna,  who  in 
mid-heaven  gazes  upward,  seated  on  a  cloud,  in  a  mandorla 
of  cherubs,  surrounded  by  four  angels  playing  musical  instru- 
ments, while  two  others  are  at  her  feet  following  her  in  her 
flight ;  below,  three  saints,  with  St.  Michael,  stand  disconsolate. 
In  the  Pietk,  painted  much  earlier,  where  the  dead  Christ 
lies  on  His  Mother's  knees,  while  an  angel  holds  the  head 
of  the  Prince  of  Life  on  his  shoulders,  and  Mary  Magdalen 
weeps  at  his  feet,  and  two  saints,  St.  John  and  St.  Joseph, 
perhaps,  watch  beside  Him,  there  might  seem  to  be  little  to 
hold  us  or  to  interest  us  at  all ;  the  picture  is  really  without 
life,  just  because  everything  is  so  unreal,  and  if  we  gather 
any  emotion  there,  it  will  come  to  us  from  the  soft  sky,  full 

'  For  a  full  consideration  of  these  and  other  works  of  Perugino,  Gentile 
da  Fabrino,  and  the  Umbrian  masters,  sec  my  Cities  of  Umbria, 
20 


306    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

of  air  and  light,  that  we  see  through  a  splendid  archway,  or 
from  a  tiny  glimpse  of  the  valley  that  peeps  from  behind 
Madonna's  robe.  And  surely  it  was  in  this  valley,  on  a  little 
hill,  that,  as  we  may  see  in  another  picture  here,  Christ  knelt ; 
yes,  in  the  garden  of  the  world,  while  the  disciples  slept,  and 
the  angel  brought  Him  the  bitter  cup.  Not  far  away  is 
Jerusalem,  and  certain  Roman  soldiers  and  the  priests  ;  but  it  is 
not  these  dream-like  figures  that  attract  us,  but  the  world  that 
remains  amid  all  interior  changes  still  the  same,  and,  for  once 
in  his  work  those  tired  men,  really  wearied  out,  who  sleep  so 
profoundly  while  Christ  prays.  In  the  Crucifixion  all  the 
glamour,  the  religious  impression  that,  in  Perugino's  work  at 
least,  space  the  infinite  heaven  of  Italy,  the  largeness  of  her 
evening  earth,  make  on  one,  is  wanting,  and  we  find  instead 
a  mere  insistence  upon  the  subject  The  world  is  dark  under 
the  eclipsed  sun  and  moon,  and  the  figures  are  full  of  affecta- 
tion. Painted  for  the  convent  of  St.  Jerome,  it  was  necessary 
to  include  that  saint  and  his  lion,  that  strangely  pathetic  and 
sentimental  beast,  so  full  of  embarrassment,  that  looks  at  one 
so  pathetically  from  many  an  old  picture  in  the  galleries  of 
the  world.  If  something  of  that  clairvoyance  which  created 
his  best  work  is  wanting  here,  it  has  vanished  altogether  in 
that  Deposition  which  Filippino  Lippi  finished,  and  instead 
of  a  lovely  dream  of  heaven  and  earth,  one  finds  a  laboured 
picture  full  of  feats  of  painting,  of  cleverness,  and  calculated 
arrangement.  This  soft  Umbrian  world  of  dreamy  landscape, 
which  we  find  in  Perugino's  pictures,  is  like  a  clearer  vision 
of  the  land  we  already  descry  far  off  with  Fra  Angelico,  where 
his  angels  sing  and  his  saints  dance  for  gladness. 

It  is  a  different  and  a  more  real  life  that  you  see  in  the 
work  of  Fra  Lippo  LippL  Realism,  it  is  the  very  thought  of 
all  Florentine  work  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Seven  pictures 
by  the  Frate  have  been  gathered  in  this  gallery, — the  Madonna 
and  Child  Enthroned,  the  St.  Jerome  in  the  Desert,  a  Nativity, 
a  Madonna  adoring  Her  Son,  and  the  great  Coronation  of 
the  Virgin,  the  Archangel  Gabriel  and  the  Baptist,  and  a 
Madonna  and  St.  Anthony. 


ACCADEMIA  307 

Here  in  the  Accademia  you  may  see  Lucrezia  Buti,  that 
pale  beauty  whom  he  loved,  very  fair  and  full  of  languor 
and  sweetness.  She  looks  at  you  out  of  the  crowd  of  saints 
and  angels  gathered  round  the  feet  of  Madonna,  whom  God 
crowns  from  His  throne  of  jasper.  Behind  her,  looking  at 
her  always,  Lippo  himself  comes — iste  perfecit  opus, — up  the 
steps  into  that  choir  where  the  angels  crowned  with  roses  lift 
the  lilies,  as  they  wait  in  some  divine  interval  to  sing  again 
Alleluia.  And  for  this  too  he  should  be  remembered,  for  his 
son  was  Filippino  Lippo  and  his  pupil  Sandro  Botticelli. 

The  Accademia  possesses  some  five  pictures  by  Botticelli, — 
the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin  and  its  predella  (Nos.  73,  74), 
the  Madonna  with  saints  and  angels  (No.  85),  the  Dead  Christ 
(No.  157),  the  Salome  (No.  i6i),  and  the  Primavera  (No.  80). 
The  Coronation  is  from  the  Convent  of  S.  Marco,  and  seems  to 
have  been  painted  after  Botticelli  had  fallen  under  the  strange, 
unhappy  influence  of  Savonarola;  much  the  same  might  be 
said  of  the  Madonna  with  saints  and  angels,  where  his  expressive- 
ness, that  quality  which  in  him  was  genius,  seems  to  have 
fallen  almost  into  a  mannerism,  a  sort  of  preconceived  attitude ; 
and  certainly  here,  where  such  a  perfect  thing  awaits  us,  it  is 
rather  to  the  Spring  we  shall  turn  at  once  than  to  anything 
less  splendid. 

The  so-called  Primavera  was  painted  for  Lorenzo  de'  Medici, 
and  in  some  vague  way  seems  to  have  been  inspired  by 
Poliziano's  verses  in  praise  of  Giuliano  de*  Medici  and  Bella 
Simonetta — 

"  Candida  h  ella,  e  Candida  la  vesta 
Ma  pur  di  rose  e  fior  dipinta  e  d'erba  : 
Lo  innanellato  crin  della  aurea  testa 
Scende  in  la  fronte  umilmente  superba. 
Ridete  attorno  tutta  la  fuesta, 
E  quanto  puo',  sue  cure  disacerba. 
Neir  atto  regalmente  h  mansueta 
E  pur  col  ciglio  le  tempeste  acqueta."  ^ 


*  Poliziano,  Stanze  I,  str.  43,  44,  46,  47,  68,  72,  85,  94 ;  and  Alberti,  Opcre 
Volgari,  Della  Pittura,  Lib.  lu  (Firenze,  1847). 


3o8    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

And  here  at  last  we  see  the  greatest,  the  most  personal 
artist  of  the  fifteenth  century  really  at  his  best,  in  that 
fortunate  moment  of  half-pensive  joy  which  was  so  soon  to 
pass  away.  How  far  has  he  wandered,  and  through  what 
secret  forbidden  ways,  from  the  simple  thoughts  of  Angelico, 
the  gay  worldly  laughter  of  Lippo  Lippi.  On  that  strange 
adventurous  journey  of  the  soul  he  has  discovered  the  modern 
world,  just  our  way  of  looking  at  things,  as  it  were,  with  a  sort  of 
gift  for  seeing  in  even  the  most  simple  things  some  new  and  subtle 
meaning.  And  then,  in  that  shadowy  and  yet  so  real  kingdom 
in  which,  not  without  a  certain  timidity,  he  has  ventured  so  far, 
he  has  come  upon  the  very  gods  in  exile,  and  for  him  Venus 
is  born  again  from  the  foam  of  the  sea,  and  Mars  sleeping  in 
a  valley  will  awake  to  find  her  beside  him,  not  as  of  old 
full  of  laughter,  disdain,  and  joy ;  but  half  reconciled,  as  it 
were,  to  sorrow,  to  that  change  which  has  come  upon  her 
so  that  men  now  call  her  Mary,  that  name  in  which  bitter  and 
sweet  are  mingled  together.  With  how  subtly  pensive  a 
mien  she  comes  through  the  spring  woods  here  in  the  Prima- 
vera,  her  delicate  hand  lifted  half  in  protest,  half  in  blessing 
of  that  gay  and  yet  thoughtful  company, — Flora,  her  gown  full  of 
roses,  Spring  herself  caught  in  the  arms  of  Aeolus,  the  Graces 
dancing  a  little  wistfully  together,  where  Mercurius  touches 
indifferently  the  unripe  fruit  with  the  tip  of  his  caducaeus,  and 
Amor  blindfold  points  his  dart,  yes  almost  like  a  prophecy  of 
death.  .  .  .  What  is  this  scene  that  rises  so  strangely  before  our 
eyes,  that  are  filled  with  the  paradise  of  Angelico,  the  heaven 
of  Lippo  Lippi.  It  is  the  new  heaven,  the  ancient  and  beloved 
earth,  filled  with  spring  and  peopled  with  those  we  have  loved, 
beside  whose  altars  long  ago  we  have  hushed  our  voices. 
It  is  the  dream  of  the  Renaissance.  The  names  we  have 
given  these  shadowy  beautiful  figures  are  but  names,  that 
Grace  who  looks  so  longingly  and  sadly  at  Hermes  is  but  the 
loveliest  among  the  lovely,  though  we  call  her  Simonetta  and 
him  Giuliano.  Here  in  the  garden  of  the  world  is  Venus's 
pleasure-house,  and  there  the  gods  in  exile  dream  of  their 
holy  thrones.    Shall  we  forgive  them,  and  forget  that  since  our 


Ill'       1111,11      i,l,\tls     1    !.MM      I  111       IKIM.WIi; 


ACCADEMIA  309 

hearts  are  changed  they  are  changed  also?  They  have  looked 
from  Olympus  upon  Calvary ;  Dionysus,  who  has  borne  the 
youngest  lamb  on  his  shoulders,  has  wandered  alone  in  the 
wilderness  and  understood  the  sorrow  of  the  world ;  even  that 
lovely,  indifferent  god  has  been  crucified,  and  she,  Venus 
Aphrodite,  has  been  born  again,  not  from  the  salt  sea,  but  in 
the  bitterness  of  her  own  tears,  the  tears  of  Madonna  Mary. 
It  is  thus  Botticelli,  with  a  rare  and  personal  art,  expresses  the 
very  thought  of  his  time,  of  his  own  heart,  which  half  in  love 
with  Pico  of  Mirandola  would  reconcile  Plato  with  Moses,  and 
since  man's  allegiance  is  divided  reconcile  the  gods.  You 
may  discern  something,  perhaps,  of  the  same  thought,  but 
already  a  little  cold,  a  little  indifferent  in  its  appeal,  in  the 
Adoration  of  the  Shepherds  which  Luca  Signorelli  painted,  now 
in  the  Uffizi,  where  the  shepherds  are  fair  and  naked  youths, 
the  very  gods  of  Greece  come  to  worship  the  Desire  of  all 
Nations.  But  with  Botticelli  that  divine  thought  is  altogether 
fresh  and  sincere.  It  is  strange  that  one  so  full  of  the  Hellenic 
spirit  should  later  have  fallen  under  the  influence  of  a  man  so 
singularly  wanting  in  temperance  or  sweetness  as  Savonarola. 
One  pictures  him  in  his  sorrowful  old  age  bending  over  the 
Divina  Commedia  of  Dante,  continually  questioning  himself  as 
to  that  doctrine  of  the  Epicureans,  to  wit,  that  the  soul  dies 
with  the  body;  at  least,  one  reads  that  he  abandoned  all 
labour  at  his  art,  and  was  like  to  have  died  of  hunger  but  for 
the  Medici,  who  supported  him.  ^ 

*  Of  the  work  of  Verrocchio  in  this  gallery,  the  Baptism  of  Christ,  in  which 
Leonardo  is  said,  I  think  mistakenly,  to  have  painted  an  angel  in  the  left 
hand  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  I  speak  in  the  chapter  on  the  Uffizi. 


XXIII 
FLORENCE 

THE  UFFIZI 

IF  it  is  difficult  to  speak  with  justice  and  a  sense  of  propor- 
tion of  the  Accademia  delle  Belle  Arti,  how  may  I  hoj^ 
to  succeed  with  the  Uffizi  Gallery,  where  the  pictures  are 
infinitely  more  varied  and  numerous.  It  might  seem  im- 
possible to  do  more  than  to  give  a  catalogue  of  the  various 
works  here  gathered  from  royal  and  ducal  collections,  from 
many  churches,  convents,  and  monasteries,  forming,  certainly, 
with  the  gallery  of  the  Pitti  Palace,  the  finest  collection 
of  the  Italian  schools  of  painting  in  the  world.  And  then 
in  this  palace,  built  for  Cosimo  i,  by  Giorgio  Vasari,  the 
delightful  historian  of  the  Italian  painters,  you  may  find 
not  only  paintings  but  a  great  collection  of  sculpture  also, 
a  magnificent  collection  of  drawings  and  jewels,  together 
with  the  Archieves,  the  Biblioteca  Nazionale,  which  includes 
the  Palatine  and  the  Magliabecchian  Libraries.  It  will  be 
best,  then,  seeing  that  a  whole  lifetime  were  not  enough  in 
which  to  number  such  treasures,  to  confine  ourselves  to  a 
short  examination  of  the  sculpture,  which  is  certainly  less 
valuable  to  us  than  to  our  fathers,  and  to  a  brief  review, 
hardly  more  than  a  personal  impression,  of  the  Italian  pictures, 
which  are  its  chiefest  treasure. 

Of  the  rooms  in  which  are  hung  the  portraits  of  painters, 
those  unfortunate  self-portraits  in  which  some  of  the  greatest 
painters  have  not  without  agony  realised  their  own  ugliness, 
exhibiting  themselves  in  the  pose  that  they  have  hoped  the 

310 


THE  UFFIZI  311 

world  would  mistake  for  the  very  truth,  I  say  nothing.  It 
is  true,  the  older  men,  less  concerned  perhaps  at  staring  the 
world  in  the  face,  are  not  altogether  unfortunate  in  their 
self-revelation ;  but  consider  the  portrait  of  Lord  Leighton 
by  himself, — it  must  have  been  painted  originally  as  a 
signboard  for  Burlington  House,  for  the  summer  exhibition 
of  the  Academy  there,  as  who  should  say  to  a  discerning 
public :  Here  you  may  have  your  fill  of  the  impudent  and 
blatant  commonplace  you  love  so  much.  And  if  such  a 
thing  is  really  without  its  fellow  in  these  embarrassing  rooms, 
where  Raphael,  Leonardo,  Titian,  and  Velasquez  are  shouted 
down  by  some  forgotten  German,  some  too  well  remembered 
English  painter,  it  is  but  the  perfect  essence  of  the  whole 
collection,  as  though  for  once  Leighton  had  really  understood 
what  was  required  of  him  and  had  done  his  marvellous 
best. 

It  is  on  the  top  floor  of  this  palace  of  Cosimo  i,  after 
passing  the  busts  of  the  lords  and  dukes  of  the  Medici 
family,  that  one  enters  the  gallery  itself,  which,  running 
round  three  sides  of  a  parallelogram,  opens  into  various 
rooms  of  all  shapes  and  sizes.  It  was  Francesco  i,  second 
Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  who  began  to  collect  here  the 
various  works  of  art  which  his  predecessors  had  gathered 
in  their  villas  and  palaces.  To  this  collection  Cardinal 
Ferdinand©  de'  Medici,  his  brother,  added,  on  his  succession 
to  the  Grand-Dukedom,  the  treasures  he  had  collected  in 
the  villa  which  he  had  built  in  Rome,  and  which  still  bears 
the  name  of  his  house.  To  Cosimo  11,  it  might  seem,  we 
owe  the  covered  way  from  this  Palazzo  degli  Ufifizi  across 
Ponte  Vecchio  to  the  Palazzo  Pitti,  while  Ferdinand  11 
began  the  collection  of  those  self-portraits  of  the  painters 
of  which  we  have  spoken.  Inheriting,  as  he  did  through  his 
wife,  Vittoria  della  Rovere,  the  treasures  of  Urbino,  he 
brought  them  here,  while  it  is  to  his  son,  Cosimo  iii,  that 
we  owe  the  presence  of  Venus  de'  Medici,  which  had  been 
dug  up  in  the  gardens  of  Hadrian's  villa,  and  bought  by 
Ferdinando  i  when  he  was  Cardinal.     Most  of  the  Flemish 


312    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

pictures  were  brought  here  by  Anna,  the  sister  of  Gian 
Gastone,  and  daughter  of  Cosimo  in,  when  she  returned 
a  widow  to  Florence  from  the  North.  The  house  of  Lx)rraine 
also  continued  to  enrich  the  gallery,  which  did  not  escape 
Napoleon's  generals.  They  took  away  many  priceless 
pictures,  all  of  which  we  were  not  able  to  force  them  to 
restore,  though  we  spent  some  ;;^3o,ooo  in  the  attempt. 
We  were,  however,  able  to  send  back  to  Italy  the  Venus  de' 
Medici,  which  Napoleon  had  thought  to  marry  to  the  Apollo 
Belvedere. 

As  may  be  supposed,  the  Gallery  of  the  Uffizi,  gathered  as 
it  has  thus  been  from  so  many  sources,  is  as  various  as  it 
is  splendid.  It  is  true  that  it  possesses  no  work  by  Velasquez, 
though  even  in  that  the  Palazzo  Pitti  is  not  wanting,  and  if 
we  compare  it  with  such  collections  as  those  of  the  National 
Gallery  or  the  Louvre,  we  shall  find  it  a  little  lacking  in  pro- 
portion as  a  gallery  of  universal  art.  It  is  really  as  the  chief 
storehouses  of  Italian  painting  that  we  must  consider  both 
it  and  the  Pitti  Palace.  And  both  for  this  reason,  and  because 
under  its  director,  Signor  Corrado  Ricci,  a  new  and  clearer 
arrangement  of  its  contents  is  being  carried  out,  I  have 
thought  it  better  to  speak  of  the  pictures  in  no  haphazard 
fashion,  but,  as  is  now  becoming  easy,  under  their  respective 
schools,  as  the  Florentine,  the  Sienese,  the  Umbrian,  the 
Venetian,  thus  suggesting  an  unity  which  till  now  has  been 
lacking  in  the  gallery  itself. 

I 

The  Florentine  School 

Florentine  painting  in  the  fourteenth  century  may  be  seen 
to  best  advantage  in  the  churches  of  Florence  and  in  the 
Accademia  dalle  Belle  Arti,  for  here  in  the  Uffizi  there  is 
nothing  from  Giotto's  or  Orcagna's  hand,  though  the  work 
of  their  school  is  plentiful.  In  the  first  long  gallery,  among 
certain  Sienese  pictures  of  which  I  speak  elsewhere,  you 
may  find  these  works;  and  there,  too,  like  antique  jewels 


THE  UFFIZI  313 

slumbering  in  the  accustomed  sunlight,  you  come  upon  the 
tabernacles  and  altar-pieces  of  Don  Lorenzo  Monaco,  monk 
of  the  Angeli  of  Florence,  as  Vasari  calls  him,  the  pupil  of 
Agnolo  Gaddi,  who  has  most  loved  the  work  of  the  Sienese. 
Lorenzo  was  of  the  Order  of  Camaldoli,  and  belonged  to 
the  monastery  of  the  Angeli,  which  was  founded  in  1295 
by  Fra  Guittone  d'Arezzo,  himself  of  the  Military  Order  of 
the  Virgin  Mother  of  Jesus,  whose  monks  were  called  Frati 
Gaudenti,  the  Joyous  Brothers.  Bom  about  1370,  seventeen 
years  before  Angelico,  and  dying  in  1425,  his  works,  full  of 
an  ideal  beauty  that  belongs  to  some  holy  place,  are  altogether 
lost  in  the  corridors  of  a  gallery.  Those  works  of  his,  the 
Virgin  and  St.  John,  both  kneeling  and  holding  the  body 
of  our  Lord  (40),  dated  1404  ;  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi 
(39)*  or  the  triptych  (41),  where  Madonna  is  in  the  midst 
with  her  little  Son  standing  in  her  lap,  while  two  angels  stand 
in  adoration,  and  St.  John  Baptist  and  St.  Bartholemew, 
St.  Thaddeus  and  St.  Benedict,  wait  on  either  side,  was 
painted  in  1410,  and  was  brought  here  from  the  subterranean 
crypt  of  S.  Maria  of  Monte  Oliveto,  not  far  away.  Another 
triptych  (1309),  the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  in  the  Sala  di 
Lorenzo  Monaco,  is  perhaps  his  masterpiece.  In  the  midst 
is  the  Coronation  of  our  Lady,  surrounded  by  a  glory  of 
angels,  while  on  either  side  stand  ten  saints,  and  on  the 
frames  are  angels,  cherubs,  saints,  and  martyrs,  scattered 
like  flowers.  Painted  in  141 3  for  the  high  altar  of  the 
Monastery  of  the  Angels,  it  was  lost  on  the  suppression  of 
the  Order,  and  only  found  about  1830  at  the  Badia  di  S. 
Pietro  at  Cerreto,  in  Val  d'Elsa.  Though  it  has  doubtless 
suffered  from  repainting,  for  we  read  of  a  restoration  in  1866, 
it  remains,  lovely  and  exquisite  beyond  any  other  work  of 
the  master. 

Fra  Angelico  may  well  have  been  the  pupil  of  Lorenzo 
Monaco,  Here  in  the  UflSzi  are  two  of  his  works,  the 
great  Tabernacle  (17),  with  its  predella  (1294),  and  the 
great  Coronation  of  the  Virgin  (1290),  with  its  predelle  (i  162 
and  1 1 78).     The  Tabernacle  was  painted  in    1433  for  the 


314    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Arte  de'  Linaioli,  who  paid  a  hundred  and  ninety  gold  florins 
for  it  It  is  an  early  work,  but  such  an  one  as  in  Florence, 
at  any  rate,  only  Fra  Angelico  could  have  achieved.  Within 
the  doors  is  the  Virgin  herself,  with  Christ  standing  on  her 
knee  between  two  saints,  surrounded  by  twelve  angels  of 
heavenly  beauty  playing  on  various  instruments  of  music. 
In  the  doors  themselves  are  St.  John  Baptist  and  St.  Mark, 
while  outside  are  St.  Peter  and  St.  Jerome.  In  the  predella 
Sl  Peter  preaches  at  Rome,  St.  Mark  writes  his  Gospel,  the 
Kings  come  to  adore  Jesus  in  Bethlehem,  and  St.  Mark  is 
martyred.  The  whole  is  like  some  marvellous  introit  for  St. 
Mark's  day,  in  which  the  name  of  Mary  has  passed  by. 

The  Coronation  of  the  Virgin  (1290)  is  like  a  litany  of  the 
saints  and  of  the  Virgin  herself,  chanted  in  antiphon,  ending  in 
the  simpler  splendour  of  Magnificat,  sung  to  some  Gregorian 
tone  full  of  gold,  of  faint  blues  as  of  a  far-away  sky,  of  pale 
rose-colours  as  of  roses  fading  on  an  altar  in  the  sunlight, 
and  the  candles  of  white  are  more  spotless  than  the  lily  is. 
Amidst  a  glory  of  angels,  the  piping  voices  of  children,  she 
in  whose  name  all  the  flowers  are  hidden  is  crowned  Queen 
of  Angels  by  the  Prince  of  Life.  This  marvellous  dead 
picture  lived  once  in  S.  Maria  Nuova ;  its  predelle  have  been 
torn  away  from  it,  but  may  be  found  here,  nevertheless, 
in  the  Birth  of  St  John  Baptist  (1162)  and  the  Spozalizio 
(1178). 

It  is  to  a  painter  less  mystical,  but  not  less  a  visionary,  that 
we  come  in  the  work  of  Paolo  Uccello,  the  great  "  Battle " 
(52),  of  which  two  variants  exist,  one  in  the  Louvre,  the 
other,  the  most  beautiful  of  the  three,  in  the  National  Gallery. 
It  is,  as  some  have  thought,  a  picture  of  the  Battle  of  S. 
Egidio,  where  Braccio  da  Montone  made  Carlo  Malatesta 
and  his  nephew  Galeotto  prisoners  in  1416.  Splendid  as 
it  is,  something  has  been  lost  to  us  by  restoration.  Paola 
Uccello,  the  friend  of  Donatello  and  of  Brunellesco,  was  all 
his  life  devoted  to  the  study  of  perspective.  Many  marvellous 
drawings  in  which  he  traced  that  baffling  vista,  of  which  he 
was  wont  to  exclaim  when,  labouring  far  into  the  night,  his 


THE  UFPIZI  315 

wife,  poor  soul,  would  entreat  him  to  take  rest  and  sleep: 
"  Ah,  what  a  delightful  thing  is  this  perspective."  And  then, 
much  beautiful  work  of  his  has  perished.  It  was  on  this  art  he 
staked  his  life.  "  What  have  you  there  that  you  are  shutting 
up  so  close  ?  "  Donatello  said  to  him  one  day  when  he  found 
him  alone  at  work  on  the  Christ  and  St.  Thomas,  which  he 
had  been  commissioned  to  paint  over  the  door  of  the  church 
dedicated  to  that  saint  in  the  Mercato  Vecchio.  "Thou 
shalt  see  it  some  day, — let  that  suffice  thee,"  Uccello  answered. 
**  And  it  chanced,"  says  Vasari,  "  that  Donato  was  in  the 
Mercato  Vecchio  buying  fruit  one  morning  when  he  saw 
Paolo  Uccello,  who  was  uncovering  his  picture."  Saluting 
him  courteously,  therefore,  his  opinion  was  instantly  demanded 
by  Paolo,  who  was  anxiously  curious  to  know  what  he  would 
say  of  the  work.  But  when  Donato  had  examined  it  very 
minutely,  he  turned  to  Paolo  and  said  :  "  Why,  Paolo,  thou 
art  uncovering  thy  picture  just  at  the  very  time  when  thou 
shouldst  be  shutting  it  up  from  the  sight  of  all."  These 
words  wounded  Paolo  so  grievously  that  he  would  no  more 
leave  his  house,  but  shut  himself  up,  devoting  himself  only 
the  more  to  the  study  of  perspective,  which  kept  him  in 
poverty  and  depression  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

Paolo  had  been  influenced,  it  is  said,  by  Domenico 
Veneziano,  who  in  his  turn  was  influenced  by  the  work  of 
Masolino  and  Masaccio.  Nothing  is  known  of  the  birthplace 
of  this  painter,  who  appears  first  at  Perugia,  and  was  the 
master  of  Piero  della  Francesca.  His  work  is  very  rare ;  in 
Florence  there  are  two  heads  of  saints  in  the  Pitti,  and  Mr. 
Berenson  speaks  of  a  fresco  of  the  Baptist  and  St  Francis  in 
S.  Croce.  Here  in  the  Uffizi,  however,  we  have  a  Madonna 
and  four  Saints  (1305)  from  his  hand,  formerly  in  the  Church 
of  S.  Lucia  de'  Magnoli  in  the  Via  dc'  Bardi.  It  is  a  very 
splendid  work,  and  certainly  his  masterpiece ;  something  of 
Piero  della  Francesca's  later  work  may  perhaps  be  discerned 
there,  in  a  certain  force  and  energy,  a  sort  of  dry  sweetness  in 
the  faint  colouring  that  he  seems  to  have  loved.  The  Virgin 
is  enthroned,  and  in  her  lap  she  holds  our  Lord ;  on  the  left, 


3i6  FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

stands  St.  John  Baptist  and  S.  Francis,  on  the  right  St.  Nicholas 
and  St.  Lucia. 

In  the  only  work  by  Filippo  Lippi  in  the  Uflfizi,  the 
beautiful  Madonna  and  Child  (1307)  that  has  been  so  much 
beloved,  we  come  again  to  a  painter  who  has  been  influenced 
by  Masaccio,  and  thought  at  least  to  understand  and  perhaps 
transform  the  work  of  Lorenzo  Monaco  and  Fra  Angelico. 
It  is  once  more  in  the  work  of  his  pupil,  Botticelli,  that 
we  find  some  of  the  chief  treasures  of  the  gallery.  There 
are  some  nine  works  here  by  Sandro, — the  Birth  of  Venus 
(39),  the  Madonna  of  the  Magnificat  (1269  bis),  the  Madonna 
of  the  Pomegranate  (1269),  the  Judith  and  Holofemes  (1158), 
the  Calumny  (1182),  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi  (1286),  and 
a  Madonna  and  Child,  a  Portrait  of  Piero  de'  Medici  (11 54), 
and  St.  Augustine  (1179). 

Painted  for  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  the  Birth  of  Venus  is 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  expressive,  and  the  most 
human  picture  of  the  Quattrocento.  She  is  younger  than  the 
roses  which  the  south-west  wind  fling  at  her  feet,  the  roses  of 
earth  to  the  Rose  of  the  sea.  Not  yet  has  the  Shepherd  of 
Ida  praised  her,  nor  Adon  refused  the  honey  of  her  throat ; 
not  yet  has  Psyche  stolen  away  her  joy,  nor  Mars  rolled  her 
on  a  soldier's  couch  amid  the  spears  and  bucklers ;  for  now 
she  is  but  a  maid,  and  she  cometh  in  the  dawn  to  her  kingdom 
dreaming  over  the  sea.  If  we  compare  her  for  a  moment 
with  the  Madonna  of  the  Magnificat,  with  the  Mary  of  the 
Pomegranate,  she  seems  to  us  more  virgin  than  the  Virgin 
herself;  less  troubled  by  a  love  in  which  all  the  sorrow  and 
desire  of  the  world  have  found  expression,  less  weary  of  the 
prayers  that  will  be  hers  no  less  than  Mary's.  How  wearily 
and  with  what  sadness  Madonna  writes  Magnificat,  or  dreams 
of  the  love  that  even  now  is  come  into  her  arms  !  Is  it  that, 
as  Pater  has  thought,  the  honour  is  too  great  for  her,  that  she 
would  have  preferred  a  humbler  destiny,  the  joy  of  any  other 
mother  of  Israel?  Who  is  she,  this  woman  of  divine  and 
troubling  beauty  that  masquerades  as  Venus,  and  with  Christ 
in  her  arms  is  so  sad  and  unhappy.     Tradition  tells  us  that 


THE  UFFIZI  317 

she  was  Simonetta,  the  mistress  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici,  who, 
dying  still  in  her  youth,  was  borne  through  Florence  with  un- 
covered face  to  her  grave  under  the  cypresses.  Whoever  she 
may  be,  she  haunts  all  the  work  of  Botticelli,  who,  it  might 
seem,  loved  her  as  one  who  had  studied  Dante,  and,  one  of 
the  company  of  the  Platonists  of  Lorenzo's  court,  might  well 
love  a  woman  altogether  remote  from  him.  As  Venus  she  is 
a  maid  about  to  step  for  the  first  time  upon  the  shores  of 
Cypris,  and  her  eyes  are  like  violets,  wet  with  dew  that  have 
not  looked  on  the  sun ;  her  bright  locks  heavy  with  gold  her 
maid  has  caught  about  her,  and  the  pale  anemones  have 
kissed  her  breasts,  and  the  scarlet  weeds  have  kissed  her  on 
the  mouth.  As  Mary,  her  destiny  is  too  great  for  her,  and 
her  lips  tremble  under  the  beauty  of  the  words  she  is  about 
to  utter;  the  mystical  veils  about  her  head  have  blinded  her, 
her  eyelids  have  fallen  over  her  eyes,  and  in  her  heart  she 
seems  to  be  weeping.  But  it  is  another  woman  not  less 
mysterious  who,  as  Judith,  trips  homeward  so  lightly  in  the 
morning  after  the  terrible  night,  her  dreadful  burden  on  her 
head  and  in  her  soul  some  too  brutal  accusation.  Again 
you  may  see  her  as  Madonna  in  a  picture  brought  here 
from  S.  Maria  Nuova,  where  she  would  let  Love  fall,  she  is 
so  weary,  but  that  an  angel's  arm  enfolds  him. 

In  the  Calumny  you  see  a  picture  painted  from  the  descrip- 
tion Alberti  had  given  in  his  treatise  on  painting  of  the  work 
of  Apelles.  "  There  was  in  this  picture,"  says  Alberti,  "  a  man 
with  very  large  ears,  and  beside  him  stood  two  women  ;  one 
was  called  Ignorance,  the  other  Superstition.  Towards  him 
came  Calumny.  This  was  a  woman  very  beautiful  to  look 
upon,  but  with  a  double  countenance  {ma  parea  nel  visa  troppo 
astuta).  She  held  in  her  right  hand  a  lighted  torch,  and 
with  the  other  hand  she  dragged  by  the  hair  a  young  man 
{uno  garzonotto\  who  lifted  his  hands  towards  heaven.  There 
was  also  a  man,  pale,  bmtto,  and  gross,  ...  he  was  guide  to 
Calunmy,  and  was  called  Envy.  Two  other  women  accom- 
panied Calumny,  and  arranged  her  hair  and  her  ornaments, 
and   one  was    Perfidy  and  the  other   Fraud.     Behind  them 


3i8    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

came  Penitence,  a  woman  dressed  in  mourning,  all  ragged. 
She  was  followed  by  a  girl,  modest  and  sensitive,  called  Truth.  ^ 
The  Birth  of  Venus  was  the  first  study  of  the  nude  that 
any  painter  had  dared  to  paint ;  but  profound  as  is  its  signific- 
ance, Florentine  painting  was  moving  forward  by  means  less 
personal  than  the  genius,  the  great  personal  art  of  Botticelli. 
Here  in  the  Uffizi  you  may  see  an  Annunciation  (56)  of 
Baldovinetti  (1427-99),  in  which  something  of  that  strangeness 
and  beauty  of  landscape  which  owed  much  to  Angelico,  and 
more  perhaps  in  its  contrivance  to  Paolo  Uccello,  was  to 
come  to  such  splendour  in  the  work  of  Verrocchio  and 
Leonardo.  Baldovinetti's  pupil,  Piero  Pollaiuoli  (1443-96), 
the  younger  brother  of  Antonio  (1429—98),  whose  work  in 
sculpture  is  so  full  of  life,  was,  with  his  brother's  help  and 
guidance,  giving  to  painting  some  of  the  power  and  reality  of 
movement  which  we  look  for  in  vain  till  his  time.  In  a 
picture  of  St.  James,  with  St.  Vincent  and  St.  Eustace  on  either 
side  (1301),  you  may  see  Piero's  work,  the  fine,  rather  powerful 
than  beautiful  people  he  loved.  It  is,  however,  in  the  work  of  one 
whom  he  influenced,  Andrea  Verrocchio,  the  pupil  of  Donatello 
and  Baldovinetti,  that,  as  it  seems  to  me,  what  was  best  worth 
having  in  his  work  comes  to  its  own,  expressed  with  a  real 
genius  that  is  always  passionate  and  really  expressive.  The 
Baptism  in  the  Accademia,  a  beautiful  but  not  very  charming 
work,  perhaps  of  his  old  age,  received,  Vasari  tells  us,  some 
touches  from  the  brush  of  Leonardo,  and  for  long  the  Annuncia- 
tion of  the  Uffizi  (1286)  passed  as  his  very  work.  Repainted 
though  it  is,  in  almost  every  part  (the  angel's  wings  retain 
something  of  their  original  brightness),  this  Annunciation 
remains  one  of  the  loveliest  pictures  in  the  gallery,  full  of  the 
eagerness  and  ardour  of  Verrocchio.  In  a  garden  at  sunset, 
behind  the  curiously  trimmed  cypresses  under  a  portico  of 
marble.  Madonna  sits  at  her  prie  dieu,  a  marvellously  carved 
sarcophagus  of  marble,  while  before  her  Gabriel  kneels,  holding 
the  lilies,  lifting  his  right  hand  in  blessing.  The  picture  comes 
from  the  Church  of  Monte  Oliveto,  not  far  away. 

'  Alberti,  Opere  Volgari  {Y'liexat,  1847),  vol.  iv.  p.  75. 


THE  UFFIZI  319 

Verrocchio  was  the  master  of  Lorenzo  di  Credi  and  of 
Leonardo,  while,  as  it  is  said,  Perugino  passed  through  his 
bottega.  There  are  many  works  here  given  to  Lorenzo,  who 
seems  to  have  been  a  better  painter  than  he  was  a  sculptor : 
the  Madonna  and  Child  (24),  the  Annunciation  (1160),  the 
Noli  me  Tangere  (131 1),  and,  above  all,  the  Venus  (3452), 
are  beautiful,  but  less  living  than  one  might  expect  from  the 
pupil  of  Verrocchio.  Verrocchio's  true  pupil,  if  we  may  call 
him  a  pupil  of  any  master  at  all  who  was  an  universal  genius, 
wayward  and  altogether  personal  in  everything  he  did,  was 
Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Of  Leonardo's  rare  work  (Mr.  Berenson 
finds  but  nine  paintings  that  may  pass  as  his  in  all  Europe) 
there  is  but  one  example  in  the  Uffizi,  and  that  is  unfinished. 
It  is  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi  (1252),  scarcely  more  than  a 
shadow,  begun  in  1478.  Leonardo  was  a  wanderer  all  his 
life,  an  engineer,  a  musician,  a  sculptor,  an  architect,  a 
mathematician,  as  well  as  a  painter.  This  Adoration  is  the  only 
work  of  his  left  in  Tuscany,  and  there  are  but  three  other 
paintings  from  his  hand  in  all  Italy.  Of  these,  the  fresco  of  the 
Last  Supper,  at  Milan,  has  been  restored  eight  times,  and  is 
about  to  suffer  another  repainting ;  while  of  the  two  pictures 
in  Rome,  the  St.  Jerome  of  the  Vatican  is  unfinished,  and  the 
Profile  of  a  Girl,  in  the  possession  of  Donna  Laura  Minghetti, 
is  "  not  quite  finished  "  either,  Mr.  Berenson  tells  us.  It  is  to 
the  Louvre  that  we  must  go  to  see  Leonardo's  work  as  a  painter. 

Tuscan  painting  at  its  best,  its  most  expressive,  in  the  work 
of  Botticelli,  fails  to  convince  us  of  sincerity  in  the  work  of  his 
pupil  Filippino  Lippi,  the  son  of  Fra  Filippo.  Of  all  his 
pictures  here  in  the  Uffizi,  the  two  frescoes — the  portrait  of 
himself  (286),  the  portrait  of  an  old  man  (1167),  the  Adora- 
tion of  the  Magi  (1217),  painted  in  1496,  the  Madonna  and 
Saints  (1268),  painted  in  1485,  it  is  rather  the  little  picture 
of  Madonna  adoring  her  Son  (1549)  that  I  prefer,  for  a 
certain  sweetness  and  beauty  of  colour,  before  any  of  his  more 
ambitious  works.  Ghirlandajo  too,  that  sweet  and  serene 
master,  is  not  so  lovely  here  as  in  the  Adoration  of  the 
Shepherds  at  the  Accademia,  or  the  early  Madonna  Appearing 


320    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

to  St  Bernard  of  the  Badia.  In  his  so-called  Portrait  of 
Perugino  (1163),^  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi  (1295),  and  the 
Madonna  and  Child  with  Saints  and  Angels  (1297),  his  work 
seems  to  lack  sincerity,  in  all  but  the  first,  at  any  rate,  to 
be  the  facile  work  of  one  not  sufficiently  convinced  of  the 
necessity  for  just  that  without  which  there  is  no  profound 
beauty. 

But  the  age  was  full  of  misfortune ;  it  was  necessary, 
perhaps,  to  pretend  a  happiness  one  did  not  feel.  Certainly 
in  the  strangely  fantastic  work  of  Pier  di  Cosimo,  the  Rescue 
of  Andromeda  (13 12),  for  instance,  there  is  nothing  of  the 
touching  sincerity  and  beauty  of  his  Death  of  Procris,  now  in 
the  National  Galler)",  which  remains  his  one  splendid  work. 
His  pupil  Fra  Bartolommeo,  who  was  later  so  unfortunately 
influenced  by  Michelangelo,  may  be  seen  here  at  his  best  in  a 
small  diptych  (1161);  in  his  early  maimer,  his  Isaiah  (11 26) 
and  Job  (11 30),  we  see  mere  studies  in  drapery  and  anatomy. 
His  most  characteristic  work  is,  however,  in  the  Pitti  Gallery, 
where  we  shall  consider  it. 

Much  the  same  might  be  said  of  his  partner  Albertinelli, 
and  his  friend  Andrea  del  Sarto,  whom  again  we  shall  con- 
sider later  in  the  Pitti  Palace.  It  will  be  sufficient  here  to 
point  out  his  beautiful  early  Noli  me  Tangere  (93),  the 
Portrait  of  his  Wife  (188),  the  Portrait  of  Himself  (280),  the 
Portrait  of  a  Lady,  with  a  Petrarch  in  her  hands  (1230),  and 
the  Madonna  dell'  Arpie  (11 12),  that  statuesque  and  too 
grandiose  failure  that  is  so  near  to  success. 

Michelangelo,  that  Roman  painter — for  out  of  Rome  there 
are  but  two  of  his  works,  and  one  of  these,  the  Deposition  in 
the  National  Gallery,  is  unfinished — has  here  in  the  Uffizi  a 
very  splendid  Holy  Family  (11 39),  splendid  perhaps  rather 
than  beautiful,  where  in  the  background  we  may  see  the 
graceful  nude  figures  which  Luca  Signorelli  had  taught  him 
to  paint  there.  Luca  Signorelli,  bom  in  Cortona,  the  pupil 
of  Piero  della  Francesca,  passes  as  an  Umbrian  painter,  and 

'  Mr.  Berenson  calls  it  a  Portrait  of  Perugino,  though  for  long  it  passed 
as  a  Portrait  of  Verrocchio  by  Lorenzo  di  Credi. 


THE  UFFIZI  321 

indeed  his  best  work  may  be  found  there.  But  he  was  much 
influenced  by  Antonio  PoUainolo,  and  is  altogether  out  of 
sympathy  with  the  mystical  art  of  Umbria.  Here  in  the  Uffizi 
are  two  of  his  early  works,  the  Holy  Family  (1291)  and  a 
Madonna  and  Child  (74),  where,  behind  the  Virgin  holding  her 
divine  Son  in  her  lap,  you  may  see  four  naked  shepherds, 
really  the  first  of  their  race.  This  picture  was  painted  for 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  and  doubtless  influenced  Michelangelo 
when  he  painted  his  Holy  Family  for  Messer  Angelo  Doni, 
who  haggled  so  badly  over  his  bargain. 

It  is  really  the  decadence,  certainly  prophesied  in  the  later 
work  of  Andrea  del  Sarto,  that  we  come  to  in  the  work  of 
that  pupil  of  his,  who  was  influenced  by  what  he  could  under- 
stand of  the  work  of  Michelangelo.  Jacopo  Pontormo's 
work  fails  to  interest  us  to-day  save  in  his  portraits.  The 
Cosimo  I  (1270),  the  Cosimo  dei  Medici  (1267),  painted  from 
some  older  portrait,  the  Portrait  of  a  Man  (1220),  have  a 
certain  splendour,  that  we  find  more  attenuated  but  still  living 
in  the  work  of  his  pupil  Bronzino,  who  also  failed  to  under- 
stand Michelangelo.  His  various  insincere  and  badly 
coloured  compositions  merely  serve  to  show  how  low  the  taste 
of  the  time — the  time  of  the  fall  of  the  Republic — had  fallen. 

Thus  we  have  followed  very  curiously,  but  with  a  certain 
faithfulness  nevertheless,  the  course  of  Florentine  Art,  With 
the  other  schools  of  Italy  we  shall  deal  more  shortly. 

II 

The  Sienese  School 

It  is  as  a  divine  decoration  that  Sienese  art  comes  to  us 
in  the  profound  and  splendid  work  of  Duccio  di  Buoninsegna, 
the  delicate  and  lovely  work  of  Simone  Martini,  the  patient 
work  of  the  Lorenzetti.  The  masterpiece,  perhaps,  of  Duccio 
is  the  great  Rucellai  Madonna  of  S.  Maria  Novella.  There  is 
none  of  his  work  in  the  Uffizi ;  but  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
paintings  in  the  world,  the  Annunciation  of  Simone  Martini 


322    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

(23),  from  the  Church  of  S.  Ansano  in  Castelvecchio,  is  in  the 
first  Long  Gallery  here.  On  a  gold  ground  under  three 
beautiful  arches,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  Dove  hovers  amid 
the  Cherubim,  Gabriel  whispers  to  the  Virgin  the  mysterious 
words  of  Annunciation.  In  his  hand  is  a  branch  of  olive,  and 
on  his  brow  an  olive  crown.  Madonna,  a  little  overwhelmed 
by  the  marvel  of  these  tidings,  draws  back,  pale  in  her 
beauty,  the  half-closed  book  of  prayer  in  her  hands,  catching 
her  robe  about  her;  between  them  is  a  vase  of  campanulas, 
still  and  sweet.  Who  may  describe  the  colour  and  the  delicate 
glory  of  this  work  ?  The  hand  of  man  can  do  no  more ;  it  is 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  religious  paintings,  subtle  and  full  of 
grace.  Simone  was  the  greatest  follower  of  Duccio.  Bom  in 
1284,  in  1324  he  married  Vanna  di  Memmo,  and  his  brother, 
Lippo  Memmi,  sometimes  assisted  him  in  his  work.  Lippo's 
hand  cannot  be  discerned  in  the  Annunciation — none  but 
Simone  himself  could  have  achieved  it ;  but  the  two  saints, 
who  stand  one  on  either  side,  are  his  work,  as  well  as  the  four 
little  figures  in  the  frame. 

Of  the  other  early  Sienese  painters,  only  Pietro  and 
Ambrogio  Lorenzetti  are  represented  in  the  Uffizi.  The  first, 
by  a  Madonna  (15)  and  a  Thebaid;  the  second  (16),  in 
the  two  predella  pictures  for  the  altar-piece  of  S.  Procolo. 
Sassetta,  the  best  of  the  Sienese  Quattrocento  painters,  is 
absent,  and  Vecchietta  is  only  represented  by  a  predella 
picture  (47) ;  it  is  not  till  we  came  to  Sodoma,  whose  famous 
St.  Sebastian  (1279)  suggests  altogether  another  kind  of  art,  a 
sensuous  and  sometimes  an  almost  hysterical  sort  of  ecstasy, 
as  in  the  Swooning  Virgin  or  the  Swoon  of  St.  Catherine  at 
Siena,  that  we  find  Sienese  painting  again. 


THE  UFFIZI  323 

III 

The  Umbrian  School* 

Influenced  in  the  beginning  by  the  Sienese,  the  Umbrian 
school  of  painting  remained  almost  entirely  religious.  The 
Renaissance  passed  it  by  as  in  a  dream,  and  although  in  the 
work  of  Perugino  you  find  a  wonderful  and  original  painter, 
a  painter  of  landscape  too,  it  is  rather  in  the  earlier  men, 
Ottaviano  Nelli,  whose  beautiful  work  at  Gubbio  is  like  a 
sunshine  on  the  wall  of  S.  Maria  Nuova  ;  Gentile  da  Fabriano, 
whose  Adoration  of  the  Magi  is  one  of  the  treasures  of  the 
Accademia  delle  Belle  Arti ;  of  Niccolb  da  Foligno,  and  of 
Bonfigli  whose  flower-like  pictures  are  for  the  most  part  in 
the  Pinacoteca  at  Perugia,  than  in  Perugino,  or  Pinturicchio, 
or  Raphael,  that  you  come  upon  the  most  characteristic  work 
of  the  school. 

There  was  no  Giotto,  no  Duccio  even,  in  Umbria.  Paint- 
ing for  its  own  sake,  or  for  the  sake  of  beauty  or  life,  never 
seems  to  have  taken  root  in  that  mystical  soil ;  it  is  ever  with 
a  message  of  the  Church  that  she  comes  to  us,  very  simply  and 
sweetly  for  the  most  part,  it  is  true,  but  except  in  the  work  of 
Piero  della  Francesca,  who  was  not  really  an  Umbrian  at  all, 
and  in  that  of  his  pupil  Melozzo  da  Forh,  the  work  of  the 
school  is  sentimental  and  illustrative,  passionately  beautiful 
for  a  moment  with  Gentile  da  Fabriano ;  clairvoyant  almost  in 
the  best  work  of  Perugino ;  most  beloved,  though  maybe  not 
most  lovely,  in  the  marvellous  work  of  Raphael,  who,  Umbrian 
though  he  be,  is  really  a  Roman  painter,  full  of  the  thoughts 
of  a  world  he  had  made  his  own. 

Here,  in  the  Uffizi,  Gentile  da  Fabriano  is  represented  by 
parts  of  an  altar-piece,  four  isolated  saints,  St.  Mary  Magdalen, 
St.  Nicholas  of  Bari,  St.  John  Baptist,  and  St.  George.  It  is 
rather  in  the  beautiful  work  of  Piero  della  Francesca,  and  of 
Signorelli,  in  the  rare  and  lovely  work  of  Melozzo  da  Forll,  in 
the  sweet  and  holy  work   of  Perugino,  the  perfect  work  of 

*  For  a  full  account  of  the  Umbrian  school  see  my  Cities  of  Umbria. 


324    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Raphael,  that  Umbria  is  represented  in  the  Uffizi,  than  in  the 
mutilated  altar-piece  of  Gentile  da  Fabriano. 

Piero  della  Francesca  was  bom  about  1 4 1 6  at  the  little  town 
of  Borgo  San  Sepolcro,  just  within  the  borders  of  Tuscany, 
towards  Arezzo.^  He  was  a  great  student  of  perspective,  a 
friend  of  mathematicians,  of  Fra  Luca  Paccioli,  for  instance, 
who  later  became  the  friend  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  His  work 
has  force,  and  is  always  full  of  the  significance  of  life.  In- 
fluenced by  Paolo  Uccello,  founding  his  work  on  a  really 
cientific  understanding  of  certain  laws  of  vision,  of  drawing, 
his  work  seems  to  have  been  responsible  for  much  that  is  so 
splendid  in  the  work  of  Signorelli  and  Perugino.  Nor  is  he 
without  a  faint  and  simple  beauty,  which  is  altogether  delightful 
in  his  pictures  in  the  National  Gallery,  for  instance  the  Nativity 
and  the  Baptism  of  our  Lord.  Here,  in  the  Uffizi,  are  two 
portraits  from  his  hand — Count  Federigo  of  Urbino,  and  his 
wife  Battista  Sforza  ( 1 300),  painted  in  1 465.  Splendid  and  full 
of  confidence,  they  are  the  work  of  a  man  who  is  a  consum- 
mate draughtsman,  and  whose  drawing  here,  at  any  rate,  is  a 
thing  of  life.  On  the  back  of  these  panels  Piero  has  painted 
an  allegory,  or  a  trionfo,  whose  meaning  no  one  has  yet  read. 

The  Uffizi  has  lately  been  enriched  by  a  work  of  his  pupil, 
that  rare  painter,  Melozzo  da  ForU.  Two  panels  of  the 
Annunciation,  very  beautiful  in  colour  and  full  of  something 
that  seems  strange,  coming  from  that  Umbrian  country,  so 
mystical  and  simple,  hang  now  with  the  portraits  of  Piero. 
Nor  is  the  work  of  Melozzo  da  Forll's  pupil,  Marco 
Palmezzano,  whose  facile  work  litters  the  Gallery  of  ForU, 
wanting,  for  here  is  a  Crucifixion  (1095)  from  his  hand, 
certainly  one  of  his  more  important  pictures. 

Pietro  Vanucci,  called  II  Perugino,  was  born  about  1446 
at  Castel  della  Pieve,  some  twenty-six  miles  from  Perugia. 
The  greatest  master  of  the  Umbrian  School,  for  we  are 
content  to  call  Raphael  a  Roman  painter,  his  work,  so  sweet 

*  In  1416,  Borgo  S.  Sepolcro  was  not  just  within  the  borders  of  Tuscany 
of  course,  as  it  is  to-day,  but  just  without :  it  was  part  of  the  Papal  State 
till  Eugenius  I  v.  sold  it  to  Florence. 


THE  UFFIZI  325 

and  lovely  at  its  best,  is  at  its  worst  little  better  than  a 
repetition  of  his  own  mannerisms.  Here,  in  the  UflSzi, 
however,  we  have  four  of  his  best  works — the  three  great 
portraits,  Francesco  delle  Opere  (287),  Alessandro  Braccesi 
(12 1 7),  and  the  Portrait  of  a  Lady  (1120),  long  given  to 
Raphael,  but  which  Mr.  Berenson  assures  us  is  Perugino's ; 
and  the  Madonna  and  Child  of  the  Tribuna,  painted  in  1493. 
The  Francesco  delle  Opere  was  perhaps  his  first  portrait,  full 
of  virility  beyond  anything  else  in  his  work,  save  his  own 
portrait  at  Perugia.  For  many  years  this  picture,  owing,  it  might 
seem,  to  a  mistake  of  the  Chevalier  Montalvo,  was  supposed 
to  represent  Perugino  himself,  so  that  the  picture  was  hung  in 
the  Gallery  of  the  Portraits  of  Painters.  At  last  an  inscription 
was  discovered  on  the  back  of  the  picture,  which  reads  as 
follows  :  14(^4,  D^Luglio  Pietro  Perugino  Pinse  Franco  Debpa. 

Francesco  delle  Opere  was  a  Florentine  painter,  the  brother 
of  Giovanni  delle  Corniole.  He  died  at  Venice,  and  it  may 
well  be  that  it  was  at  Venice  that  Perugino  first  met  him. 
Perugino's  picture  shows  us  Francesco,  a  clean-shaven  and 
young  person,  holding  a  scroll  on  which  is  written,  "  Trineta 
Deum  ; "  the  portrait  is  a  half-length,  and  the  hands  are  visible. 
In  the  background  is  a  characteristic  country  of  hill  and 
valley  under  the  deep  serene  sky,  the  light  and  clear  golden 
air  that  we  see  in  so  much  of  his  work.  The  Portrait  of  a 
Lady  (11 20),  long  given  to  Raphael,  comes  to  the  Uffizi 
from  the  Grand  Ducal  Villa  of  Poggio  a  Caiano ;  it  was 
supposed  to  be  the  portrait  of  Maddalena  Strozzi,  wife  of 
Angela  Doni.  The  portrait  shows  us  a  young  woman,  in  a 
Florentine  dress  of  the  period,  while  around  her  neck  is  a 
gold  chain,  from  which  hangs  a  little  cross.  The  Portrait 
of  a  Young  Man  (12 17)  is  painted  on  wood,  and  is  life  size. 

The  Madonna  and  Child,  with  two  Saints,  was  painted  in 
1493  ^or  the  Church  of  S,  Domenico  at  Fiesole,  and  was 
placed  in  the  Uffizi  by  the  Grand  Duke  Peter  Leopold  in 
1756.  Madonna  sits  a  little  indifferent  on  a  throne  under 
an  archway,  holding  the  Child,  who  turns  towards  St.  John 
Baptist,   as   he   gazes   languidly  on   the   ground ;   while   St, 


326     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Sebastian,  a  beautiful  youth,  stands  on  the  other  side,  looking 
upwards,  and  though  the  arrows  have  pierced  his  flesh,  he  is 
still  full  of  affected  grace,  and  is  so  occupied  with  his  prayers 
that  he  has  not  noticed  them.  On  the  base  of  the  throne 
Perugino  has  written  his  name,  Petrus  Ferusinus  Pinxit,  An. 
14^3.  It  is  in  such  a  work  as  this  that  Perugino  is  really 
least  great.  Painted  to  order,  as  we  may  think,  it  is  so  full 
of  affectation,  of  a  kind  of  religiosity,  that  there  is  no  room 
left  for  sincerity.  And  yet  how  well  he  has  composed  this 
picture  after  all,  so  that  there  is  no  sense  of  crowding,  and 
the  sun  and  sky  are  not  so  far  away.  Is  it  perhaps  that  in 
an  age  that  has  become  suspicious  of  any  religious  emotion 
we  are  spoiled  for  such  a  picture  as  this,  finding  in  what  it 
may  be  was  just  a  natural  expression  of  worship  to  the 
simple  Friars  of  S.  Domenico  long  ago,  all  the  ritualism  and 
affectation  in  which  we  should  find  it  necessary  to  hide 
ourselves  before  we  might  approach  her,  as  she  seemed  to 
them,  a  Queen  enthroned,  causa  nostrae  Laetitiae,  between 
two  saints  whose  very  names  we  find  it  difificult  to  remember  ? 
How  often  in  our  day  has  Perugino  been  accused  of  insin- 
cerity, yet  it  was  not  so  long  ago  when  he  lived.  Almost 
all  his  life  he  was  engaged  in  painting  for  the  Church  those 
things  which  were  most  precious  in  her  remembrance.  If  men 
found  him  insincere,  it  is  strange  that  among  so  much  that 
was  eager  and  full  of  sincerity  his  work  was  able  to  hold  its  own. 
His  pupil  Raphael,  that  most  beloved  name,  is  represented 
here  in  the  Uffizi  only  by  the  Madonna  del  Cardellino  (11 29); 
for  the  other  works  attributed  to  him  in  the  Tribuna  are  not 
his.  The  picture  is  in  his  early  manner,  and  was  painted 
about  1548.  It  has,  like  so  much  of  Raphael's  work,  suffered 
restoration ;  and  indeed  these  compositions  from  his  hand  no 
longer  hold  us  as  they  used  to  do,  whether  because  of  that 
repainting  or  no,  I  know  not.  It  is  as  a  portrait-painter  we 
think  of  Raphael  to-day,  and  as  the  painter  of  the  Stanze  at 
Rome ;  and  therefore  I  prefer  to  speak  of  him  with  regard 
to  his  work  in  the  Pitti  Gallery  rather  than  here.  With  him 
the  Umbrian  School  passed  into  the  world, 


THE  UFFIZI  327 

IV 

The  Venetian  School 

Nearly  all  the  Venetian  pictures  were  bought  in  1654  by 
Cardinal  Leopoldo  de'  Medici  from  Messer  Paolo  del  Sera, 
a  Florentine  merchant  in  Venice,  More  truly  representative 
of  the  Renaissance,  its  humanism  and  splendour,  than  any 
other  school  of  painting  in  Italy,  the  earlier  works  of  that 
great  Venetian  School  are  not  seen  to  advantage  in  the  Uffizi. 
There  is  nothing  here  by  Jacopo  Bellini,  nothing  by  his  son 
Gentile;  nor  any  work  from  the  hands  of  Antonio  or 
Bartolommeo  Vivarini,  or  Antonello  da  Messina,  who  appar- 
ently introduced  oil  painting  into  Venice.  It  is  not  till  we 
come  to  Giovanni  Bellini,  born  about  1430,  that  we  find  a 
work  of  the  Quattrocento  in  the  delightful  but  puzzling 
Allegory  (631),  where  Our  Lady  sits  enthroned  beside  a 
lagoon  in  a  strange  and  lovely  landscape  of  rocks  and  trees ; 
while  beside  her  kneels  St.  Catherine  of  Alexandria,  and  again, 
St.  Catherine  of  Siena ;  farther  away  stand  St.  Peter  and 
St.  Paul,  while  below  children  are  playing  with  fruit  and  a 
curious  tree;  on  the  other  side  are  Job  and  St.  Sebastian, 
while  in  the  background  you  may  see  the  story  of  the  life  of 
St.  Anthony.  This  mysterious  picture  certainly  stands  alone 
in  Giovanni  Bellini's  work,  and  suggests  the  thoughts  at  least 
of  Mantegna ;  and  while  it  is  true  that  Giovanni  had  worked 
at  Padua,  one  is  surprised  to  come  upon  its  influence  so  late 
in  his  life.^ 

The  influence  of  the  Bellini  is  to  be  found  in  almost  all 
the  great  painters  of  Venice  in  the  Cinquecento.  We  come 
upon  it  first  in  the  work  of  Vittore  Carpaccio,  of  which  there 
is  but  a  fragment  here,  the  delicate  little  picture,  the  Finding 
of  the  True  Cross  (583  bis);  while  in  two  works  attributed 
to  Bissolo  and  Cima  da  Conegliano  (584,  564  bis),  we  see 
too  the  influence  of  Bellini. 

^  Mr.  Berenson  calls  the  picture  An  Allegory  of  the  Tree  of  Life,  ancj 
^dtls  that  jt  js  certainly  a  late  work  of  Giovanni, 


328    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

If  Carpaccio  was  the  greatest  pupil  of  Gentile  Bellini,  in 
Giorgione  we  see  the  first  of  those  marvellous  painters  who 
were  taught  their  art  by  his  brother  Giovanni.  Giorgio 
Barbarelli,  called  Giorgione,  was  born  at  Castelfranco,  a 
little  town  in  the  hills  not  far  from  Padua,  in  1478. 
Three  of  his  rare  works — there  are  scarcely  more  than  some 
fifteen  in  the  world — are  here  in  the  Uflfizi,  the  two  very 
early  pictures — but  all  his  works  were  early,  for  he  died  in 
1 5 10 — the  Trial  of  Moses  (621),  and  the  Judgment  of 
Solomon  (630),  and  the  beautiful  portrait  of  a  Knight  of 
Malta  (622).  Giorgione  was  the  dayspring  of  the  Renaissance 
in  Venice.  His  work,  as  Pater  foretold  of  it,  has  attained 
to  the  condition  of  Music.  And  though  in  the  portrait  of 
the  Knight  of  Malta,  for  instance,  we  have  to  admit  much 
repainting,  something  of  the  original  glamour  still  lingers,  so 
that  in  looking  on  it  even  to-day  we  may  see  to  how  great 
a  place  the  painters  of  Venice  had  been  called.  It  is  in  the 
work  of  his  fellow-pupil  and  friend  Titian  that  the  great 
Venetian  treasure  of  the  Uffizi  lies.  In  the  Madonna  with  St. 
Anthony  (633)  we  have  a  picture  in  Giorgione's  early  manner, 
and  a  later,  but  still  early  work,  in  the  Flora  (626).  The  two 
portraits,  Eleonora  Gonzaga  and  Francesco-Maria  della  Rovere, 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Urbino,  were  painted  in  Venice  in  1536 
or  1538,  and  came  into  the  Uffizi  with  the  other  Urbino 
pictures,  with  the  Venus  of  Urbino  (i  1 1 7),  for  instance,  where 
Titian  has  painted  the  Bella  of  the  Pitti  Palace  naked  on  a 
couch,  a  little  dog  at  her  feet,  and  in  her  hand  a  chaplet  of 
roses.  In  the  background  two  maids  search  for  a  gown  in 
a  great  chest  under  a  loggia.  This  picture,  first  mentioned 
in  a  letter  of  1538,  was  painted  for  Duke  Guidobaldo  della 
Rovere.  The  Venus  with  the  little  Amor  (1108)  appears 
to  have  been  painted  about  1545.  It  is  not  from  Urbino. 
Dr.  Gronau  thinks  it  may  be  identical  with  the  Venus 
"shortly  described  in  a  book  of  the  Guardaroba  of  Grand 
Duke  Cosimo  11  in  the  year  1621."  The  Portrait  of  Bishop 
Beccadelli  (11 16)  was  painted  in  July  1552,  and  is  signed 
by  Titian.     It  was  bought,  with  the  other  Venetian  pictures. 


THE  UFFIZI  329 

by  Cardinal  Leopoldo  de'  Medici  in  1654,  I  say  nothing 
of  Titian  here :  preferring  to  speak  of  him  in  dealing  with 
his  more  various  and  numerous  work  in  the  Pitti  Palace. 
Other  pupils  of  Giovanni  Bellini,  beside  Giorgione  and  Titian, 
are  found  here — Palma  Vecchio  for  instance — in  a  poor  picture 
of  Judith  with  the  Head  of  Holofernes  (619);  Rondinelli  in 
a  Portrait  of  a  Man  (354)  and  a  Madonna  and  two  Saints 
(384);  Sebastiano  del  Piombo  in  the  Farnesina  (1123),  long 
given  to  Raphael,  and  the  Death  of  Adonis  (592).  All  these 
men,  whose  work  is  so  full  of  splendour,  came  under  the 
influence  of  Giorgione  after  passing  through  Bellini's  Bottega. 
Nor  did  Lorenzo  Lotto,  the  pupil  of  Alvise  Vivarini,  escape 
the  authority  of  that  serene  and  perfect  work,  whose  beauty 
lingered  so  quietly  over  the  youth  of  the  greatest  painter  of 
Italy,  Tiziano  Vecelli :  his  Holy  Family  (575)  seems  to  be  a 
work  of  Giorgione  himself  almost,  that  has  suffered  some 
change;  that  change  was  Lotto. 

Titian's  own  pupils,  Paris  Bordone,  Tintoretto,  and  Schia- 
vone,  may  also  be  found  here ;  the  first  in  a  Portrait  of  a 
Young  Man  (607),  full  of  confidence  and  force.  Tintoretto 
has  five  works  here,  beside  the  portrait  of  himself  (378) :  the 
Bust  of  a  Young  Man  (577),  the  Portrait  of  Admiral  Vernier 
(601),  the  Portrait  of  an  Old  Man  (615),  the  Portrait  of 
Jacopo  Sansovino  (638),  and  a  Portrait  of  a  Man  (649). 
His  portraits  are  full  of  an  immense  splendour;  they  sum 
up  often  rhetorically  enough  all  that  was  superficial  in  the 
subject,  representing  him  as  we  may  suppose  he  hardly  hoped 
to  see  himself.  Without  the  subtle  distinction  of  Titian's 
art,  or  the  marvellous  power  of  characterisation  and  express- 
iveness that  he  possessed  with  the  earlier  men,  Tintoretto's 
work  is  noble,  and  almost  lyrical  in  its  confidence  and  beauty. 
In  his  day  Venice  seems  to  have  been  the  capital  of  the 
world,  peopled  by  a  race  of  men  splendid  and  strong,  beside 
whom  the  men  of  our  time,  even  the  best  of  them,  seem  a 
little  vulgar,  a  little  wanting  in  dignity  and  life. 

Two  pictures  by  Paolo  Veronese,  the  early  Martyrdom  of 
S.  Giustina  (589),  and  the  Holy  Family  and  St.  Catherine 


330    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

(1136),  bring  the  period  to  a  close.  It  is  a  different  school 
of  painting  altogether  that  we  see  in  the  Piazzetta  of  Canaletto 
(1064),  perhaps  the  last  picture  painted  by  a  Venetian  in  the 
gallery. 

The  Northern  Schools 

Andrea  Mantegna  was  born,  not  at  Padua,  where  his 
greatest  work  is  to  be  found — three  frescoes  in  the  Eremitani 
— but  at  Vicenza.  Here  in  the  Uffizi,  however,  we  have  two 
works  of  his  middle  period,  certainly  among  the  best,  if  not 
the  most  beautiful,  of  his  easel  pictures.  In  one  we  see 
Madonna  and  Child  in  a  rocky  landscape,  where  there  are 
trees  and  flowers  (1025) ;  the  other  is  a  triptych  (i  1 1 1),  one 
of  the  many  priceless  things  to  be  found  here.  In  the  midst 
you  may  see  the  Three  Kings  at  the  feet  of  Jesus  Parvulus  in 
his  Mother's  arms,  while  on  one  side  Mantegna  has  painted 
the  Presentation  in  the  Temple,  and  on  the  other  the  Resur- 
rection. Long  ago  this  marvellous  miniature,  that  even  to-day 
seems  to  shine  like  a  precious  stone,  was  in  the  possession 
of  the  Gonzagas  of  Mantua,  from  whom  it  is  supposed  the 
Medici  bought  it. 

Five  male  portraits  by  the  Bergamesque  master  Moroni  are 
to  be  found  here.  One  (360)  is  said  to  be  a  portrait  of 
himself,  though  it  certainly  bears  no  resemblance  to  the  por- 
trait at  Bergamo.  I  cannot  forbear  from  mentioning  the 
Portrait  of  a  Scholar,  which  seems  to  me  one  of  his  best 
works.  Moroni  was  bom  at  Bondo,  not  far  from  Albino^  in 
1525.  It  is  probable  that  Moretto,  who,  as  Morelli  suggests, 
was  a  Brescian  by  birth,  though  his  parents  originally  came 
from  the  same  valley  as  Moroni,  Valle  del  Serio,  was  his 
master.  Moretto  is,  I  think,  a  greater  painter  than  Moroni, 
though  perhaps  we  are  only  beginning  to  appreciate  the 
latter. 

Three  pictures  here  are  from  the  hand  of  Correggio :  the 
early  small  panel  of  Madonna  and  Child  with  Angels  (1002), 
once  ascribed  to  Titian,  a  naive  and  charming  little  work ;  the 
Repose  in  Egypt  ( 1 1 1 8),  grave  and  beautiful  enough,  but  in 


THE  UFFIZI  331 

some  way  I  cannot  explain  a  little  disappointing ;  and  the 
Madonna  adoring  her  little  Son  (1134),  which  is  rather 
commonplace  in  colour,  though  delightful  in  conception. 

It  might  seem  impossible  within  the  covers  of  one  book 
to  do  more  than  touch  upon  the  enormous  wealth  of  ancient 
art  in  the  possession  of  almost  every  city  in  Italy ;  and  here 
in  Florence,  more  than  anywhere  else,  I  know  my  feebleness. 
If  these  few  notes,  for  indeed  they  are  nothing  more,  serve 
to  group  the  pictures  hung  in  the  Uffizi  into  Schools,  to  win 
a  certain  order  out  of  what  is  already  less  a  chaos  than  of  old, 
to  give  to  the  reader  some  idea  almost  at  a  glance  of  what 
the  Uffizi  really  possesses  of  the  various  schools  of  Italian 
painting,  they  will  have  served  their  purpose.^ 

Of  the  sculpture,  too,  I  say  nothing.  Vastly  more  im- 
portant and  beloved  of  old  than  to-day,  when  the  work  of  the 
Greeks  themselves  has  come  into  our  hands,  and  above  all 
the  Greek  work  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.,  there  is  not  to  be 
found  in  the  Uffizi  a  single  marble  of  Greek  workmanship, 
and  but  few  Roman  works  that  are  still  untampered  with. 
For  myself,  I  cannot  look  with  pleasure  on  a  Roman  Venus 
patched  by  the  Renaissance,  for  I  have  seen  the  beauty  of 
the  Melian  Aphrodite ;  and  there  are  certain  things  in  Rome, 
in  Athens,  in  London,  which  make  it  for  ever  impossible  for 
us  to  be  sincere  in  our  worship  at  this  shrine. 

'  Of  the  Flemish,  Dutch,  German,  and  French  pictures  here  I  intend 
to  say  no  more  than  to  name  a  few  among  them.  The  most  valuable 
foreign  picture  in  Florence  for  the  student  of  Italian  art  is  Van  der  Goes' 
(1425-82)  great  triptych  (1525)  of  the  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds,  with 
the  Family  of  the  donor  Messer  Portinari,  agent  of  the  Medici  in  Bruges. 
In  the  same  sala  are  two  Memlings  (703,  778),  and  a  Roger  van  der 
Weyden  {795).  Two  Ilolbeins,  the  Richard  Southwell  (765),  and  Sir 
Thomas  More  (799),  are  in  the  German  room  ;  while  Dllrer's  noble  and 
lovely  Adoration  of  the  Magi  (1141)  is  still  in  the  Tribuna,  and  his 
Portrait  of  his  Father  (766)  is  with  the  other  German  pictures  in  the 
German  room.  Some  too  clofjucnt  works  of  Rubens  hang  apart,  while 
here  and  there  you  may  see  a  Vandyck — Lord  John  and  Lord  Bernard 
Stuart  (1523),  for  instance,  or  Jean  de  Montfort  (1115),  a  little  pensive 
and  proud  amid  the  splendour  of  Italy. 


XXIV 
FLORENCE 

THE  PITTI  GALLERY 

DURING  the  last  years  of  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  Luca  Pitta, 
that  rare  old  knight,  sometime  Gonfaloniere  of  Justice, 
thought  to  possess  himself  of  the  state  of  Florence,  and  to 
this  end,  besides  creating  a  new  Balia  against  the  wishes  of 
Cosimo,  distributed,  as  it  is  said,  some  20,000  ducats  in  one 
day,  so  that  the  whole  city  came  after  him  in  flocks,  and  not 
Cosimo,  but  he,  was  looked  upon  as  the  governor  of  Florence. 
*'  So  foolish  was  he  in  his  own  conceit,  that  he  began  two 
stately  and  magnificent  houses,"  Macchiavelli  tells  us,  "  one 
in  Florence,  the  other  at  Ruciano,  not  more  than  a  mile 
away :  but  that  in  Florence  was  greater  and  more  splendid 
than  the  house  of  any  other  private  citizen  whatsoever.  To 
finish  this  latter,  he  baulked  no  extraordinary  way,  for  not 
only  the  citizens  and  better  sort  presented  him  and  furnished 
him  with  what  was  necessary  for  it,  but  the  common  people 
gave  him  all  of  their  assistance ;  besides,  all  that  were 
banished  or  guilty  of  murder,  felony,  or  any  other  thing  which 
exposed  them  to  punishment,  had  sanctuary  at  that  house 
provided  they  would  give  him  their  labour." 

Now,  when  Cosimo  was  dead,  and  Piero  de'  Medici  the 
head  of  that  family,  Niccolb  Soderini  was  made  Gonfaloniere 
of  Justice,  and  thinking  to  secure  the  liberty  of  the  city  he 
began  many  good  things,  but  perfected  nothing,  so  that  he 
left  that  office  with  less  honour  than  he  entered  into  it.  This 
fortified  Piero's  party  exceedingly,  so  that  his  enemies  began 


THE  PITTI  GALLERY  333 

to  resent  it  and  work  together  to  consider  how  they  might 
kill  him,  for  in  supporting  Galeazzo  Maria  Sforza  to  the 
Dukedom  of  Milan — which  his  father  Francesco,  just  dead, 
had  stolen  for  himself — they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the  way 
in  which  Piero  would  deal  if  he  could  with  Florence.  Thus 
the  Mountain,  as  the  party  of  his  enemies  was  called,  leaned 
threatening  to  crush  him  more  surely  every  day.  But  Piero, 
who  lay  sick  at  Careggi,  armed  himself,  as  did  his  friends,  who 
were  not  few  in  the  city.  Now  the  leaders  of  his  enemies 
were  Luca  Pitti,  Dietosalvi  Neroni,  Agnola  Acciaiuoli,  and 
most  courageous  of  all,  Niccolb  Soderini.  He,  taking  arms, 
as  Piero  had  done,  and  followed  by  most  of  the  people  of  his 
quarter,  went  one  morning  to  Luca's  house,  entreating  him  to 
mount  and  ride  with  him  to  Palazzo  Vecchio  for  the  security 
of  the  Senate,  who,  as  he  said,  were  of  his  side.  "  To  do  this," 
said  he,  "  is  victory."  But  Luca  had  no  mind  for  this  game, 
for  many  reasons, — for  one,  he  had  already  received  promises 
and  rewards  from  Piero ;  for  another,  he  had  married  one  of 
his  nieces  to  Giovanni  Tomabuoni, — so  that,  instead  of  joining 
him,  he  admonished  Soderini  to  lay  aside  his  arms  and  return 
quietly  to  his  house.  In  the  meantime  the  Senate,  with  the 
magistrates,  had  closed  the  doors  of  Palazzo  Vecchio  without 
appearing  for  either  side,  though  the  whole  city  was  in  tumult. 
After  much  discussion,  they  agreed,  since  Piero  could  not  be 
present,  for  he  was  sick,  to  go  to  him  in  his  palace,  but 
Soderini  would  not.  So  they  set  out  without  him ;  and 
arrived,  one  was  deputed  to  speak  of  the  tumult,  and  to 
declare  that  they  who  first  took  arms  were  responsible ;  and 
that  understanding  Piero  was  the  man,  they  came  to  be 
informed  of  his  design,  and  to  know  whether  it  were  for  the 
advantage  of  the  city.  Piero  made  answer  that  not  they  who 
first  took  arms  were  blameworthy,  but  they  who  gave  occasion 
for  it :  that  if  they  considered  their  behaviour  towards  him, 
their  meetings  at  night,  their  subscriptions  and  practices  to 
defeat  him,  they  would  not  wonder  at  what  he  had  done ;  that 
he  desired  nothing  but  his  own  security,  and  that  Cosimo  and 
his  sons  knew  how  to  live  honourably  in  Florence,  either  with 


334    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

or  wthout  a  Balia.  Then,  turning  on  Dietosalvi  and  his 
brothers,  who  were  all  present,  he  reproached  them  severely 
for  the  favours  they  had  received  from  Cosimo,  and  the  great 
ingratitude  which  they  had  returned  ;  which  reprimand  was 
delivered  with  so  much  zeal,  that,  had  not  Piero  himself 
restrained  them,  there  were  some  present  who  would  certainly 
have  killed  them.  So  he  had  it  his  own  way,  and  presently, 
new  senators  being  chosen  and  another  gonfaloniere,  the 
people  were  called  together  in  the  Piazza  and  a  new  Balia 
was  created,  all  of  Piero's  creatures.  This  so  terrified  "  the 
Mountain "  that  they  fled  out  of  the  city,  but  Luca  Pitti 
remained,  trusting  in  Giovanni  Tomabuoni  and  the  promises 
of  Piero.  Now  mark  his  fall.  He  quickly  learned  the 
difference  betwixt  victory  and  misfortune,  betwixt  honour  and 
disgrace.  His  house,  which  formerly  was  thronged  with 
visitors  and  the  better  sort  of  citizens,  was  now  grown  solitary 
and  unfrequented.  \Vhen  he  appeared  abroad  in  the  streets, 
his  friends  and  relations  were  not  only  afraid  to  accompany 
him,  but  even  to  own  or  salute  him,  for  some  of  them 
had  lost  their  honours  for  doing  it,  some  their  estates, 
and  all  of  them  were  threatened.  The  noble  structures 
which  he  had  begun  were  given  over  by  the  workmen, 
the  good  deeds  requited  with  contumely,  the  honours  he 
had  conferred  with  infamy  and  disgrace.  For  many  persons, 
who  in  the  day  of  his  authority  had  loaded  him  with 
presents,  required  them  again  in  his  distress,  pretending  they 
were  but  loans  and  no  more.  Those  who  before  had  ciied 
him  to  the  skies,  cursed  him  down  as  fast  for  his  ingratitude 
and  violence ;  so  that  now,  when  it  was  too  late,  he  began 
to  repent  himself  that  he  had  not  taken  Soderini's  advice 
and  died  honourably,  seeing  that  he  must  now  live  with  dis- 
honour. 

So  far  Macchiavelli.  The  unfinished,  half-ruinous  palace, 
designed  in  1444  by  Brunellesco,  was  a  century  later  sold  by 
the  Pitti,  quite  ruined  now,  to  Eleonora,  the  wife  of  Grand 
Duke  Cosimo,  and  was  finished  by  Ammanati.  The  great 
wings  were  added  later.     In  May   1550,   Cosimo  i  entered 


THE  PITTI  GALLERY  335 

Palazzo  Pitti  as  his  Grand-Ducal  residence.  To-day  it  is  the 
King  of  Italy's  Palace  in  Florence. 

The  Galleria  Palatina  is  a  gallery  of  the  masterpieces  of  the 
high  Renaissance,  formed  by  the  Grand  Dukes,  who  brought 
here  from  their  own  villas  and  from  the  Uffizi  the  greatest 
works  in  their  possession.  Like  other  Italian  galleries,  it 
suffered  from  Napoleon's  generals ;  but  though  sixty  or  more 
pictures  were  taken  to  Paris,  they  all  seem  to  have  been 
returned.  Here  the  Grand  Dukes  gathered  ten  pictures  by 
Titian,  eight  by  Raphael,  as  well  as  two,  the  Madonna  del 
Baldacchino  and  the  Vision  of  Ezekiel,  which  he  designed, 
ten  by  Andrea  del  Sarto,  six  by  Fra  Bartolommeo,  two 
lovely  Peruginos,  two  splendid  portraits  by  Ridolfo  Ghirlandajo, 
four  portraits  by  Tintoretto,  several  pictures  by  Rubens,  two 
portraits,  one  of  himself,  by  Rembrandt,  a  magnificent  Vandyck, 
a  Velasquez,  and  many  lesser  pictures.  In  the  royal  apart- 
ments, among  other  interesting  or  beautiful  things,  is  Botticelli's 
Pallas  and  the  Centaur,  painted,  as  some  have  thought,  to 
celebrate  Lorenzo's  return  from  Naples  in  1480.  It  is,  then, 
rather  as  a  royal  gallery  than  as  a  museum  that  we  must 
consider  the  Galleria  Palatina,  a  more  splendid  if  less 
catholic  Salon  Carr^,  the  Tribuna  of  Italian  painting.  It  is 
strange  that,  among  all  the  beautiful  and  splendid  pictures 
with  which  the  Grand  Dukes  surrounded  themselves,  there  is 
not  one  from  the  hand  of  Leonardo,  nor  one  that  Michel- 
angelo has  painted.  And  then,  of  the  many  here  that  pass 
under  the  name  of  Botticelli,  only  the  Pallas  and  the  Centaur 
in  the  royal  apartments  seems  to  be  really  his ;  so  that  when 
we  look  for  the  greatest  pictures  of  the  Florentine  school,  we 
must  be  content  with  the  strangely  unsatisfactory  work  of 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  often  lovely  enough  it  is  true,  but  as  often 
insincere,  shallow,  not  at  one  with  itself,  and  certainly  a 
stranger  here  in  Florence. 

The  work  of  Andrea  del  Sarto,  as  we  are  assured,  might 
but  for  his  tragic  story  have  been  so  splendid ;  but  in 
truth  that  sentimental  and  pathetic  tale  neither  excuses  nor 
explains  his  failure,   if  failure  it   be.     He  is  the  first  artist 


33^    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

who  has  worked  badly  because  he  loved  a  woman.  He 
was  bom  in  1456,  and  became  the  pupil  of  Piero  di 
Cosimo.  There  in  that  fantastic  bottega  he  must  have  met 
Fra  Bartolommeo,  who  later  influenced  him  so  deeply.  Nor 
was  Michelangelo,  or  at  least  his  grand  and  tremendous  art, 
without  its  effect  upon  one  so  easily  moved,  so  subject  to 
every  passing  mood,  as  Andrea.  Yet  he  never  seems  to  have 
expressed  just  himself,  save  in  those  tragic  portraits  of  himself 
and  of  his  wife,  of  which  there  are  three  here  in  the  Pitti 
(188,  280,  1 1 76).  He  has  been  called  the  faultless  painter, 
and  indeed  he  seems  to  be  incapable  of  fault,  to  be  really  a 
little  effeminate,  a  little  vague,  bewildered  by  the  sculpture  of 
Michelangelo,  the  confusion  of  art  in  Florence,  the  advent  of 
the  colourists,  of  whom  here  in  Tuscany  he  is  perhaps  the 
chief.  It  is  no  intellectual  passion  you  find  in  that  soft, 
troubled  work,  where  from  every  picture  Lucrezia  del  Fede 
looks  out  at  you,  posing  as  Madonna  or  Magdalen  or  just 
herself,  and  even  so,  discontented,  unhappy,  unsatisfactory 
because  she  is  too  stupid  to  be  happy  at  all.  If  she  were 
Andrea's  tragedy,  one  might  think  that  even  without  her  his 
life  could  scarcely  have  been  different.  If  we  compare,  here 
in  the  Pitti  Gallery,  the  two  pictures  of  the  Annunciation  from 
his  hand,  we  shall  see  how  completely  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
early  work  is  wanting  in  his  later  pictures.  Something,  some 
divine  energy,  seems  to  have  gone  out  of  his  life,  and  ever 
after  he  is  but  trying  to  revive  or  to  counterfeit  it.  Now  and 
then,  as  in  the  Disputa  (172),  which  marks  the  very  zenith  of 
his  art,  he  is  almost  a  great  painter,  but  the  Madonna  with 
six  Saints  (123),  painted  in  1524,  is  already  full  of  repetitions, 
— the  kneeling  figures  in  the  foreground,  for  instance,  that  we 
find  again  in  the  Deposition  (58)  painted  in  the  same  year. 
Nor  in  the  Assumption  (225)  painted  in  1526,  nor  in  the 
later  picture  (191)  of  1 531,  is  there  any  significance,  energy, 
or  beauty :  they  are  arrangements  of  draperies,  splendid 
luxurious  pictures  without  sincerity  or  emotion.  It  is  not 
fair  to  judge  him  by  the  St.  John  Baptist,  which  has  suffered 
too  much  from  restoration  to  be  any  longer  his  work.     Thus 


THE  PITTI  GALLERY  337 

it  is  at  last  as  the  painter  of  the  Annunziata  and  the  Scalzo 
that  we  must  think  of  him,  which,  full  of  grandiose  and  heavy 
forms  and  draperies  though  they  are,  still  please  us  better 
than  anything  else  he  achieved,  save  the  great  Last  Supper  of 
S.  Salvi  and  the  portraits  of  himself  and  his  wife.  As  a 
Florentine  painter  he  seems  ever  among  strangers  :  it  is  as  an 
exiled  Venetian,  one  who  had  been  forced  by  some  irony  of 
circumstances  to  forego  his  birthright  in  that  invigorating  and 
worldly  city,  which  might  have  revealed  to  him  just  the 
significance  of  life  which  we  miss  in  his  pictures,  that  he 
appears  to  us ;  a  failure  difficult  to  explain,  a  weak  but 
beautiful  nature  spoiled  by  mediocrity. 

Fra  Bartolommeo  was  another  Florentine  who  seems,  for  a 
moment  at  any  rate,  to  have  been  bewildered  by  the  influence 
of  Michelangelo,  but  as  a  profound  conviction  saved  him  from 
insincerity,  so  his  splendid  sensuality  preserved  his  work  from 
sentimentalism.  Born  about  1475  ^*  Savignano,  not  far  from 
Prato,  his  father  sent  him  to  Florence,  placing  him  in  the  care 
of  Cosimo  Rosselli,  according  to  Vasari,  but  more  probably, 
as  we  may  think,  under  Piero  di  Cosimo.  Here  he  seems  to 
have  come  under  the  influence  of  Leonardo,  and  to  have  been 
friends  with  Mariotto  Albertinelli.  The  great  influence  of  his 
life,  however,  was  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  whom  he  would 
often  go  to  S.  Marco  to  hear.  Savonarola  was  preaching  as 
ever  against  vanities, — that  is  to  say,  pictures,  statues,  verses, 
books :  things  doubtless  anathema  to  one  whose  whole  future 
depended  upon  the  amount  of  interest  he  could  awaken  in 
himself.  At  this  time,  it  seems,  Savonarola  was  asserting  his 
conviction  that  **  in  houses  where  young  maidens  dwelt  it  was 
dangerous  and  improper  to  retain  pictures  wherein  there  were 
undraped  figures."  It  seems  to  have  been  the  custom  in 
Florence  at  the  time  of  the  Carnival  to  build  cabins  of  wood 
and  furze,  and  on  the  night  of  Shrove  Tuesday  to  set  them 
ablaze,  while  the  people  danced  around  them,  joining  hands, 
according  to  ancient  custom,  amid  laughter  and  songs.  This 
Savonarola  had  denounced,  and,  winning  the  ear  of  the  people 
for  the  moment,  he  persuaded  those  who  were  wont  to  dance 
22 


338    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

to  bring  "  pictures  and  works  of  sculpture,  many  by  the  most 
excellent  masters,"  and  to  cast  them  into  the  fire,  with  books, 
musical  instruments,  and  such.  To  this  pile,  Vasari  tells  us, 
Bartolommeo  brought  all  his  studies  and  drawings  which  he 
had  made  from  the  nude,  and  threw  them  into  the  flames ;  so 
also  did  Lorenzo  di  Credi  and  many  others,  who  were  called 
Piagnoni,  among  them,  no  doubt,  Sandro  Botticelli.  The 
people  soon  tired,  however,  of  their  new  vanity,  as  they  had 
done  of  the  beautiful  things  they  had  destroyed  at  his  bidding, 
and,  the  party  opposed  to  Savonarola  growing  dangerous, 
Bartolommeo  with  others  shut  themselves  up  in  S.  Marco  to 
guard  Savonarola.  Fra  Girolamo's  excommunication,  torture, 
and  death,  which  followed  soon  after,  seem  finally  to  have 
decided  the  gentle  Bartolommeo  to  assume  the  religious 
habit,  which  he  did  not  long  after  at  S.  Domenico  in  Prato. 
Later  we  find  him  back  in  Florence  in  the  Convent  of  S. 
Marco,  where  he  is  said  to  have  met  Raphael  and  to  have 
learned  much  from  him  of  the  art  of  perspective.  However 
that  may  be,  he  continued  to  paint  there  in  S.  Marco  really — 
saving  a  journey  to  Rome  where  he  came  under  the  influence 
of  Michelangelo,  a  visit  to  S.  Martino  in  Lucca,  and  his 
journey  to  Venice  in  1506 — for  the  rest  of  his  life,  being 
buried  there  at  last  in  15 17. 

Six  pictures  from  his  hand  hang  to-day  in  the  Pitti, — a 
Holy  Family  (256),  the  beautiful  Deposition  (64),  an  Ecce 
Homo  in  fresco  (377),  the  Marriage  of  St.  Catherine,  painted 
in  1512  (208),  a  St.  Mark,  painted  in  1514  (125),  and  Christ 
and  the  Four  Evangelists,  painted  in  15 16  (159).  The 
unpleasing  "  Madonna  appearing  to  St.  Bernard,"  painted  in 
1506,  now  in  the  Accademia,  was  his  first  work  after  he 
became  a  friar.  I 

Here,  in  the  Pitti,  Bartolommeo  is  not  at  his  best ;  for  his 
earlier  and  more  delicate  manner,  so  full  of  charm  and  a  sort 
of  daintiness,  one  must  go  to  Lucca,  where  his  picture  of 
Madonna  with  St.  Stephen  and  St.  John  Baptist  hangs  in  the 
Duomo.  The  grand  and  almost  pompous  works  in  Florence, 
splendid  though  they  may  be  in  painting,  in  composition,  in 


9fh 


THE  PITTI  GALLERY  339 

colour,  scarcely  move  us  at  all,  so  that  it  might  almost  seem 
that  in  following  Savonarola  he  lost  not  the  world  only  but 
his  art  also,  that  refined  and  delicate  art  which  comes  to  us 
so  gently  in  his  earliest  pictures.  Something  passionate  and 
pathetic,  truly,  may  be  found  in  the  Pieth  here,  together  with 
a  certain  dramatic  effectiveness  that  is  rare  in  his  work.  With 
what  an  effort,  for  instance,  has  St.  John  lifted  the  body  of 
his  Master  from  the  great  cross  in  the  background,  how 
passionately  Mary  Magdalen  has  flung  herself  at  His  feet ; 
yet  the  picture  seems  to  Ije  without  any  real  significance, 
without  spirituality  certainly,  only  another  colossal  group  of 
figures  that  even  Michelangelo  has  refused  to  carve. 

On  coming  to  the  work  of  Raphael,  to  the  work  of  Titian, 
we  find  the  great  treasure  of  the  Pitti  Gallery,  beside  which 
the  rest  is  but  a  background :  it  is  for  them  really,  after  all, 
that  we  have  come  here. 

Raphael  Sanzio,  the  "  most  beloved  name  in  the  history  of 
painting,"  was  born  at  Urbino  in  1483.  The  pupil  first  of 
his  father  maybe,  though  Giovanni  died  when  his  son  was 
but  eleven  years  old,  and  later  of  Timoteo  Viti,  we  hear  of 
Raphael  first  in  the  bottega  of  the  greatest  of  the  Umbrian 
painters,  Perugino,  at  Perugia.  Two  works  of  Perugino  hang 
to-day  in  the  Pitti  Gallery,  the  Madonna  and  Child  (219)  and 
the  Entombment  (164),  painted  in  1495,  for  the  nuns  of 
S.  Chiara.  Vasari  has  much  to  say  of  it,  relating  how 
Francesco  del  Pugliare  offered  to  give  them  three  times  as 
much  as  they  had  paid  Perugino  for  the  picture,  and  to 
cause  another  exactly  like  it  to  be  executed  for  them  by 
same  hand ;  but  they  would  not  consent,  because  Pietro 
had  told  them  he  did  not  think  he  could  equal  the  one 
they  possessed."  It  is  really  Umbria  itself  we  see  in  that 
lovely  work,  which  has  impressed  Bartolommeo  so  profoundly, 
the  Lake  of  Thrasymene  surrounded  by  villages  that  cUmb 
the  hills  just  as  Perugino  has  painted  the  Httle  city  in  this 
picture.  And  it  is  in  this  mystical  and  smiling  country, 
where  the  light  is  so  soft  and  tender,  softer  than  on  any 
Tuscan  hills,  that  tlie  most  perfect  if  not  the  greatest  painter 


340    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

of  the  Renaissance  grew  up.  You  may  find  some  memory 
of  that  beautiful  land  of  hills  and  quiet  valleys  even  in  his 
latest  work,  after  he  had  learned  from  every  master,  and 
summed  up,  as  it  were,  the  whole  Renaissance  in  his  achieve- 
ment. But  in  four  pictures  here  in  the  Pitti,  it  is  the 
influence  of  Florence  you  find  imposing  itself  upon  the  art 
of  Umbria,  transforming  it,  strengthening  it,  and  suggesting, 
it  may  be,  the  way  of  advance.  Something  of  the  art  of 
Pietro  you  find  in  the  portraits  of  Madallena  Doni  (59), 
Angelo  Doni  (61),  and  La  Donna  Gravida  (229),  something 
so  akin  to  the  Francesco  delle  Opere  of  the  Uffizi  that  it 
would  not  be  surprising  to  find  the  Madallena  Doni,  at 
any  rate,  attributed  toj  Perugino.  Yet  superficial  though  they 
be  in  comparison  with  the  later  portraits,  they  mark  the 
patient  endeavour  of  his  work  in  Florence,  the  realism  that 
this  city,  so  scornful  of  forestiert,  was  forcing  upon  him  as  it 
had  already  done  on  Perugino,  who  in  the  Francesco,  the 
Bracessi,  and  the  two  monks  of  the  Accademia,  touches  life 
itself,  perhaps,  for  the  only  time  in  all  his  work.  It  is 
perhaps  the  influence  of  Florence  we  find  too  in  the  simplicity 
of  the  Madonna  del  Granduca  (178).  Here  is  a  picture 
certainly  in  the  manner  of  Perugino,  but  with  something  lost, 
some  light,  some  beatitude,  yet  with  something  gained  also, 
if  only  in  a  certain  measure  of  restraint,  a  real  simplicity  that 
is  foreign  to  that  master.  And  then,  if  we  compare  it  with 
the  Madonna  della  Sedia  (151),  which  is  said  to  have  been 
painted  on  the  lid  of  a  wine  cask,  we  shall  find,  I  think, 
that  however  many  new  secrets  he  may  learn  Raphael  never 
forgot  a  lesson.  It  is  Perugino  who  has  taught  him  to 
compose  so  perfectly,  that  the  space,  small  or  large,  of  the 
picture  itself  becomes  a  means  of  beauty.  How  perfectly 
he  has  placed  Madonna  with  her  little  Son,  and  St.  John 
praying  beside  them,  so  that  until  you  begin  to  take  thought 
you  are  not  aware  how  difficult  that  composition  must  have 
been,  and  indeed  you  never  remember  how  small  that  tondo 
really  is.  How  eagerly  these  easel  pictures  of  Madonna 
have  been  loved,  and  yet  to-day  how  little  they  mean  to  us ; 


THE  PITTI  GALLERY  341 

some  virtue  seems  to  have  gone  out  of  them,  so  that  they 
move  us  no  longer,  and  we  are  indeed  a  little  impatient  at 
their  fame,  and  ready  to  accuse  Raphael  of  I  know  not  what 
insincerity  or  dreadful  facility.  Yet  we  have  only  to  look 
at  the  portraits  to  know  we  are  face  to  face  with  one  of  the 
greatest  and  most  universal  of  painters.  Consider,  then,  La 
Donna  Velata  (245),  or  the  Pope  Julius  11  (79),  or  the 
Leo  X  with  the  two  Cardinals  (40),  how  splendid  they  are, 
how  absolutely  characterised  and  full  of  life,  life  seen  in  the 
tranquillity  of  the  artist,  who  has  understood  everything,  with 
whom  truth  has  become  beauty.  In  the  Leo  x  with  the 
Cardinals,  Giulio  de'  Medici  and  Lorenzo  dei  Rossi,  how 
tactfully  Raphael  has  contrived  the  light  and  shadow  so  that 
the  fat  heavy  face  of  the  Pope  is  not  over  emphasised,  and 
you  discern  perfectly  the  beauty  of  the  head,  the  delicacy  of 
the  nostrils,  the  clever,  sensual,  pathetic,  witty  mouth.  And 
the  hands  seem  to  be  about  to  move,  to  be  a  little  tremulous 
with  life,  to  be  on  the  verge  of  a  gesture,  to  have  only  just 
become  motionless  on  the  edge  of  the  book.  It  is  in  these 
portraits  that  the  art  of  Raphael  is  at  its  greatest,  becomes 
universal,  achieves  immortality. 

There  remains  to  be  considered  the  splendid  ever-living 
work  of  Titian.  The  early  work  of  the  greatest  painter  of 
Italy,  of  the  world,  greatest  in  the  variety,  number,  and 
splendour  of  his  pictures,  is  represented  in  the  Pitti,  happily 
enough  by  one  of  the  most  lovely  of  all  Italian  paintings, 
the  Concert  (185),  so  long  given  to  Giorgone.  A  monk  in 
cowl  and  tonsure  touches  the  keys  of  a  harpsichord,  while 
beside  him  stands  an  older  man,  a  clerk  and  perhaps  a  monk 
too,  who  grasps  the  handle  of  a  viol ;  in  the  background,  a 
youthful,  ambiguous  figure  with  a  cap  and  plume  waits,  perhaps 
on  some  interval,  to  begin  a  song.  Yet,  indeed,  that  is  not 
the  picture,  which,  whatever  its  subject  may  be,  would  seem 
to  be  more  expressive  than  any  other  in  the  world.  Some 
great  joy,  some  great  sorrow,  seems  about  to  declare  itself. 
What  music  does  he  hear,  that  monk  with  the  beautiful 
sensitive   hands,   who   turns   away   towards  his   companion  ? 


342    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Something  has  awakened  in  his  soul,  and  he  is  transfigured. 
Perhaps  for  the  first  time,  in  some  rhjrthm  of  the  music,  he 
has  understood  everything,  the  beauty  of  life  which  passeth 
like  a  sunshine,  now  that  it  is  too  late,  that  his  youth  is  over 
and  middle  age  is  upon  him.  His  companion,  on  the 
threshold  of  old  age,  divines  his  trouble  and  lays  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder  quietly,  as  though  to  still  the  tumult  of  his 
heart.  Like  a  vision  youth  itself,  ambiguous,  about  to  possess 
everything,  waits,  like  a  stranger,  as  though  invoked  by  the 
music,  on  an  interval  that  will  never  come  again,  that  is 
already  passed. 

If  Titian  is  really  the  sole  painter  of  this  picture,  how 
loyal  he  has  been  to  his  friend,  to  that  new  spirit  which 
lighted  Venetian  art  as  the  sun  makes  beautiful  the  world. 
But  indeed  one  might  think  that,  even  with  Morelli,  Crowe, 
and  Cavalcaselle,  and  Berenson  against  us,  not  to  name  others 
who  have  done  much  for  the  history  of  painting  in  Italy,  we 
might  still  believe,  not  altogether  without  reason,  that  Giorgone 
had  some  part  in  the  Concert,  which,  after  all,  passed  as  his 
altogether  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ;  was  bought,  indeed, 
as  his  in  1654,  only  seventy-eight  years  after  Titian's  death, 
by  Cardinal  Leopoldo  de'  Medici  from  Paolo  del  Sera,  the 
Florentine  collector  in  Venice.  That  figure  of  a  youth,  so 
ambiguous  in  its  beauty — could  any  other  hand  than 
Giorgone's  have  painted  it ;  does  it  ever  appear  in  Titian's 
innumerable  masterpieces  at  all?  Dying  as  he  did  at  the 
age  of  thirty-three,  Giorgone  must  have  left  many  pictures 
unfinished,  which  Titian,  his  friend  and  disciple  almost,  may 
well  have  completed,  and  even  signed,  in  an  age  when  works, 
almost  wholly  untouched  by  a  master,  were  certainly  sold 
as  his. 

Titian's  other  pictures  here,  with  the  exception  of  the  Head 
of  Christ  (228)  and  the  Magdalen  (67),  are  portraits,  all 
save  the  so-called  Tommaso  Mosti,  painted  certainly  l^efore 
1526,  of  his  great  middle  period.  The  Magdalen  comes 
from  Urbino,  where  Vasari  saw  it  in  the  Guardaroba  of  the 
great    palace.     The  quality  of  the  picture  is   one  of  sheer 


THE  PITTI  GALLERY  343 

colour ;  there  is  here  no  other  "  subject "  than  a  beautiful 
nude  woman, — it  is  called  a  Magdalen  because  it  is  not  called 
a  Venus.  Consider,  then,  the  harmony  of  the  gold  hair  and 
the  fair  flesh  and  the  blue  of  the  sky  :  it  is  a  harmony  in  gold 
and  rose  and  blue. 

The  earliest  of  the  great  portraits  is  the  Ippolito  de'  Medici 
(201);  it  was  painted  in  Venice  in  October  1532.^  Vasari 
saw  this  picture  in  the  Guardaroba  of  Cosimo  i.  It  is  a 
half-length  portrait  of  a  distinguished  man,  still  very  young, 
that  we  see.  The  Cardinal  is  not  dressed  as  a  Churchman, 
but  as  a  grandee  of  Hungary.  In  the  sad  and  cunning  face 
we  seem  to  foresee  the  fate  that  awaited  him  at  Gaeta  scarcely 
three  years  later,  where  he  was  imprisoned  and  poisoned. 
The  beautiful  dull  red  of  the  tunic  reminds  one  of  the 
unforgetable  red  of  the  cloth  on  the  table  beside  which 
Philip  11  stands  in  the  picture  in  the  Prado.  From  this 
profound  and  almost  touching  portrait  we  come  to  the  joy 
of  the  Bella  (18).  It  is  a  hymn  to  Physical  Beauty.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  more  splendid  or  more  glad  than 
this  portrait,  perhaps  of  Eleonora  Gonzaga,  Duchess  of  Urbino. 
How  often  Titian  has  painted  her  ! — once  as  it  might  seem 
as  the  Venus  of  the  Tribune  (11 17),  and  again  in  her  own 
character  in  the  portrait ;  now  in  the  Uffizi  (599),  where 
certainly  she  is  not  so  fair  as  she  we  see  here  as  Bella  and 
there  as  Venus.  If  this,  indeed,  be  the  Duchess  of  Urbino, 
then  the  Venus  is  also  her  portrait,  for  the  Bella  is  described 
in  the  list  of  fine  pictures  which  were  brought  to  Florence 
in  1 63 1  as  a  portrait  of  the  same  person  we  know  as  the 
Venus  of  the  Tribune.  But  the  first  we  hear  of  the  Bella  is 
in  a  letter  of  the  Duke  of  Urbino  in  1536,  while  the  portrait 
in  the  Uffizi  of  Eleonora  Gonzaga  was  painted  in  Venice  in 
that  year ;  and  since  the  Duchess  is  certainly  an  older  woman 
than  the  Bella,  we  must  conclude  either  that  the  Bella  was 
painted  many  years  earlier,  which  seems  impossible,  or  that 
it  is  not  a  portrait  of  Eleonora  Gonzaga.     And,  indeed,  the 

^  Gronau,  Titian  (London,  1904),  p.  291,  where  Dr.  Gronau  suggests 
it  may  belong  to  the  following  year ;  see  also  p.  104. 


344    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

latter  conclusion  seems  likely,  for  who  can  believe  that  the 
Duke  would  have  cared  for  a  nude  portrait  of  his  wife 
as  Venus  ?  It  seems  probable  that  the  Bella  is  a  portrait  of 
his  mistress  rather  than  his  wife,  a  mistress  whom,  since  she 
was  so  fair,  he  did  not  scruple  to  ask  Titian  to  paint  as  Venus 
herself.  A  harmony  in  blue  and  gold.  Dr.  Gronau  calls  the 
Bella ;  adding  that,  "  in  spite  of  its  faults  or  of  the  restorations 
which  have  made  it  a  mere  shadow  of  its  former  splendour, 
it  remains  an  immortal  example  of  what  the  art  of  the 
Renaissance  at  its  zenith  regarded  as  the  ideal  of  feminine 
beauty." 

If  it  is  beauty  and  joy^  we  find  in  the  Bella,  it  is  a  profound 
force  and  confidence  that  we  come  upon  in  the  portrait  of 
Aretino  painted  before  1545, — and  life  above  all.  Here  is  one 
of  the  greatest  blackguards  of  history,  the  "  Scourge  of  Princes," 
the  blackmailer  of  Popes,  the  sensualist  of  the  Sonnetti 
Lussuriosi,  the  witty  author  of  the  Ragionamenti.  We  seem 
to  see  his  vulgarity,  his  immense  ability,  his  splendour,  and 
his  baseness,  and  to  understand  why  Titian  was  wise  enough 
to  take  him  for  his  friend.  What  energy,  almost  bestial  in 
its  brutality,  you  find  in  those  coarse  features  and  over- 
eloquent  lips,  and  yet  the  head  is  powerful,  really  intellectual 
too,  though  without  any  delicacy  or  fineness.  Aretino  him- 
self presented  this  portrait  to  Cosimo  i  in  October  1545,  inex- 
plicably explaining  that  the  rendering  of  the  dress  was  not 
perfect.^ 

In  another  portrait  of  about  the  same  time,  the  Young 
Englishman  (92),  we  have  Titian  at  his  best.  The  extra- 
ordinarily beautiful  English  face,  fulfilled  with  some  incalcul- 
able romance,  is  to  me  at  least  by  far  the  most  delightful 
portrait  in  Florence.  One  seems  to  understand  England, 
her  charm,  her  fascination,  her  extraordinary  pride  and 
persistence,  in  looking  at  this  picture  of  one  of  her  sons.  All 
the  tragedy  of  her  kings,  the  adventure  to  be  met  with  on  her 
seas,  the  beauty  and  culture  of  Oxford,  and  the  serenity  of 
her  country  places,  come  back  to  one  afresh  and  unsullied  by 
'  Cf.  iMtere  di  PUtro  Aretino  (1609),  vol.  iii.  p.  238. 


THE  PITTI  GALLERY  345 

memories  of  the  defiling  and  trumpery  cities  that  so  lately 
have  begun  to  destroy  her.  Who  this  beautiful  figure  may 
be  we  know  not,  nor,  indeed,  where  the  picture  may  have 
come  from  ;  for  if  it  comes  from  Urbino  it  is  not  well 
described  in  the  inventory  of  1631. 

After  looking  upon  such  a  work  as  this,  the  Philip  11  (200), 
fine  though  it  is,  and  only  less  splendid  than  the  Madrid 
picture,  the  Portrait  of  a  Man  (2 15),  both  painted  in  Augsburg 
in  1548,  and  even  the  lovely  portrait  of  Giulia  Varana, 
Duchess  of  Urbino,  in  the  royal  apartments,  seem  to  lose 
something  of  their  splendour.  Yet  if  we  compare  them  with 
the  work  of  Raphael  or  Tintoretto,  they  assuredly  possess  an 
energy  and  a  vitality  that  even  those  masters  were  seldom 
able  to  express.  For  Titian  seems  to  have  created  life  with 
something  of  the  ease  and  facility  of  a  natural  force ;  to  have 
desired  always  Beauty  as  the  only  perfect  flower  of  life ;  and 
while  he  was  not  content  with  the  mere  truth,  and  never  with 
beauty  divorced  from  life,  he  has  created  life  in  such  abundance 
that  his  work  may  well  be  larger  than  the  achievement  of 
any  two  other  men,  even  the  greatest  in  painting ;  yet  in  his 
work,  in  the  work  that  is  really  his,  you  will  find  nothing 
that  is  not  living,  nothing  that  is  not  an  impassioned  gesture 
reaching  above  and  beyond  our  vision  into  the  realm  of  that 
force  which  seems  to  be  eternal. 


XXV 

TO  FIESOLE   AND   SETTIGNANO 

How  weary  one  grows  of  the  ways  of  a  city, — yes,  even 
in  Florence,  where  every  street  runs  into  the  country, 
and  one  may  always  see  the  hills  and  the  sky !  But  even 
in  Athens,  when  they  built  the  Parthenon,  often,  I  think,  I 
should  have  found  my  way  into  the  olive  gardens  and  vine- 
yards about  Kephisos :  so  to-day,  leaving  the  dead  beauty 
littered  in  the  churches,  the  palaces,  the  museums,  the 
streets  of  Plorence,  very  often  I  seek  the  living  beauty  of  the 
country,  the  whisper  of  the  poplars  beside  Arno,  the  little 
lovely  songs  of  streams.  And  then  Florence  is  a  city  almost 
without  suburbs ;  ^  at  the  gate  you  find  the  hills,  the  olive 
gardens  bordered  with  iris,  the  vineyards  hedged  with  the 
rose. 

Many  and  fair  are  the  ways  to  Fiesole  :  you  may  go  like  a 
burgess  in  the  tram,  or  like  a  lord  in  a  coach,  but  for  me  I 
will  go  like  a  young  man  by  the  bye  ways,  like  a  poor  man  on 
my  feet,  and  the  dew  will  be  yet  on  the  roses  when  I  set  out, 
and  in  the  vineyards  they  will  be  singing  among  the  corn — 

"  Florin  fiorcllo, 
La  mi'  Rosina  ha  il  labbro  di  coral  lo 
E  rocchiettino  sue  sembra  un  gioiello." 

And  then,  who  knows  what  awaits  one  on  the  way  ? 

"  E  quando  il  viscontro  per  la  via 
Abbassi  gli  occhi  e  rasseiubri  una  dca, 
E  ia  fai  consumar  la  vita  inia." 

'  This  perhaps  is  open  to  criticism  :  there  is  a  huge  suburb  of  course 
towards  Prato,  the  other  barriere  are  still  fairly  in  the  country. 

846 


FIESOLE  347 

Of  the  ways  to  Fiesole,  one  goes  by  Mugnone  and  one  by 
S.  Gervasio,  but  it  will  not  be  by  them  that  I  shall  go,  but 
out  of  Barriera  delle  Cure  by  Via  Boccaccio ;  and  I  shall 
pass  behind  the  gardens  of  Villa  Palmieri,  whither  after  the 
second  day  of  the  Decamerone  Boccaccio's  fair  ladies  and 
gay  lords  passed  from  Poggio  Gherardo  by  a  little  path  "  but 
little  used,  which  was  covered  with  herbs  and  flowers,  that 
opened  under  the  rising  sun,  while  they  listened  to  the  song 
of  the  nightingales  and  other  birds."  Thus  between  the 
garden  walls  I  shall  come  to  S.  Domenico. 

S.  Domenico  di  Fiesole  is  a  tiny  village  half  way  up  the  hill 
of  Fiesole,  and  on  one  side  of  the  way  is  the  Dominican 
convent,  and  on  the  other  the  Villa  Medici,  while  in  the 
valley  of  Mugnone  is  an  abbey  of  Benedictines,  the  Badia  di 
Fiesole,  founded  in  1028.  The  convent  of  Dominican  friars, 
where  Fra  Angelico  and  S.  Antonino,  who  was  the  first  novice 
here,  lived,  and  Cosimo  de'  Medici  walked  so  often,  looking 
down  on  Florence  and  Arno  there  in  the  evening,  was  founded 
in  1405.  Suppressed  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  the  convent  was  despoiled  of  its  frescoes,  but  in  1880 
it  was  bought  back  by  the  Dominicans,  so  that  to-day  it  is 
fulfilling  its  original  purpose  as  a  religious  house.  The  church 
too  has  suffered  many  violations,  and  to-day  there  are  but  two 
frescoes  left  of  all  the  work  Angelico  did  here, — a  triptych  in 
the  choir,  a  Madonna  and  Saints  restored  by  Lorenzo  di  Credi, 
and  a  Crucifixion  in  the  sacristy.  Of  old  Perugino's  Baptism 
now  in  the  Uffizi  hung  here,  but  that  was  taken  by  Grand  Duke 
Leopold,  who  gave  in  exchange  Lorenzo  di  Credi's  picture  ;  but 
the  French  stole  Angelico's  Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  now  in 
the  Louvre,  and  gave  nothing  in  return,  so  that  of  all  the 
riches  of  this  little  place  almost  nothing  remains,  only  (and 
this  is  rare  about  Florence  at  any  rate)  the  original  owners 
are  in  possession,  and  you  may  hear  Mass  here  very  sweetly. 

It  is  down  a  lane,  again  between  garden  walls,  that  you 
must  go  to  the  Badia,  once  the  great  shrine  of  the  Fiesolans, 
but  since  the  eleventh  century  an  abbey  of  Benedictines, 
where  S.   Romolo  lay  in  peace  till  a  few  years  ago,  when 


348    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  oratory  not  far  from  the  church  was  stupidly  destroyed. 
The  Badia  itself  was  rebuilt  in  the  fifteenth  century  for  Cosimo 
de'  Medici,  by  the  hand,  as  it  is  said,  of  Brunellesco.  Here  in 
the  loggia  that  looks  over  the  city  the  Platonic  Academy  often 
met,  so  that  these  very  pillars  must  have  heard  the  gentle 
voice  of  Marsilio  Ficino,  the  witty  speech  of  the  young 
Lorenzo,  the  beautiful  words  of  Pico  della  Mirandola,  the 
laughter  of  Simonetta,  the  footsteps  of  Vanna  Tornabuoni. 
It  was,  however,  not  for  the  Benedictines  but  for  the  Augus- 
tinians  that  Cosimo  rebuilt  the  place,  giving  them,  indeed,  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  convents  in  Italy,  and  one  of  the 
loveliest  churches  too,  a  great  nave  with  a  transept  under  a 
circular  vaulting,  while  the  fa9ade  is  part  really  of  the  earlier 
building,  older  it  may  be  than  S.  Miniato  or  the  Baptistery 
itself,  as  we  now  see  it ;  and  there  the  pupils  of  Desiderio  da 
Settignano  have  worked  and  Giovanni  di  S.  Giovanni  has 
painted,  while  Brunellesco  is  said  to  have  designed  the  lectern 
in  the  sacristy.  Later,  Inghirami  set  up  his  printing  press 
here,  while  in  the  church  Giovanni  de'  Medici  in  1452  was 
made  Cardinal,  and  in  the  convent  Giuliano,  the  Due  de 
Nemours,  died  in  15 16.  Returning  from  this  quiet  and 
beautiful  retreat  to  S.  Domenico,  one  may  go  very  well  on 
foot,  though  not  otherwise,  by  the  old  road  to  Fiesole,  still 
between  the  garden  walls ;  but  then,  who  would  go  by  the 
new  way,  noisy  with  the  shrieking  of  the  trams,  while  by  the 
old  way  you  may  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  the  Bishops  of 
Fiesole  ?  They  would  rest  on  the  way  from  Florence  at  Riposo 
de'  Vescovi,  and  leave  their  coach  at  S.  Domenico.  By  the 
old  way,  too,  you  pass  Le  Tre  Pulzelle,  the  hostel  of  the 
Three  Maidens,  or  at  least  the  place  where  it  stood,  and  where 
Leo  X  stayed  in  1516.  Farther,  too,  is  the  little  church  of 
S.  Ansano,  where  there  are  two  works  by  Fra  Angelico  and 
a  host  of  fair  pictures,  and  then  suddenly  you  are  in  the 
great  Piazza,  littered  with  the  booths  of  the  straw-plaiters,  in 
the  keen  air  of  Fiesole,  among  a  ruder  and  more  virile  people, 
who  look  down  on  Florence  all  day  long. 

And  indeed,  whatever  the  historians  may  say,  scorning  the 


rosiA   s.  i;i:oKC.ui 


FIESOLE  349 

wise  tales  of  old  Villani,  the  Fiesolani  are  a  very  different 
people  from  the  Florentines ;  and  whether  Atlas,  with  Electra 
his  wife,  born  in  the  fifth  degree  from  Japhet  son  of  Noah, 
built  this  city  upon  this  rock  by  the  counsel  of  Apollinus, 
midway  between  the  sea  of  Pisa  and  Rome  and  the  Gulf 
of  Venice,  matters  little.  The  Fiesolani  are  not  Florentines, 
people  of  the  valley,  but  Etruscans,  people  of  the  hills,  and 
that  you  may  see  in  half  an  hour  any  day  in  their  windy 
piazzas  and  narrow  climbing  ways.  Rough,  outspoken,  stark 
men,  little  women  keen  and  full  of  salt,  they  have  not  the 
assured  urbanity  of  the  Florentine,  who,  while  he  scorns  you 
in  his  soul  as  a  barbarian,  will  trade  with  you,  eat  with  you, 
and  humour  you,  certainly  without  betraying  his  contempt. 
But  the  Fiesolano  is  otherwise ;  quarrelsome  he  is,  and  a  little 
aloof,  he  will  not  concern  himself  overmuch  about  you,  and 
will  do  his  business  whether  you  come  or  go.  And  I  think, 
indeed,  he  still  hates  the  Fiorentino,  as  the  Pisan  does,  as  the 
Sienese  does,  with  an  immortal,  cold,  everlasting  hatred,  that 
maybe  nothing  will  altogether  wipe  out  or  cause  him  to  forget. 
All  these  people  have  suffered  too  much  from  Florence,  who 
understood  the  art  of  victory  as  little  as  she  understood  the 
art  of  empire.  From  the  earliest  times,  as  it  might  seem, 
Florence,  a  Roman  foundation  after  all,  hated  Fiesole,  which 
once  certainly  was  an  Etruscan  city.  Time  after  time  she 
destroyed  it,  generally  in  self-defence.  In  loio,  for  instance, 
Villani  tells  us  that  "  the  Florentines,  perceiving  that  their 
city  of  Florence  had  no  power  to  rise  much  while  they  had 
overhead  so  strong  a  fortress  as  the  city  of  Fiesole,  one  night 
secretly  and  subtly  set  an  ambush  of  armed  men  in  divers 
parts  of  Fiesole.  The  Fiesolani,  feeling  secure  as  to  the 
Florentines,  and  not  being  on  their  guard  against  them,  on 
the  morning  of  their  chief  festival  of  S.  Romolo,  when  the 
gates  were  open  and  the  Fiesolani  unarmed,  the  Florentines 
entered  into  the  city  under  cover  of  coming  to  the  festa ;  and 
when  a  good  number  were  within,  the  other  armed  Florentines 
which  were  in  ambush  secured  the  gates ;  and  on  a  signal 
made  to  Florence,  as  had  been  arranged,  all  the  host  and 


350    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

power  of  the  Florentines  came  on  horse  and  on  foot  to  the 
hill,  and  entered  into  the  city  of  Fiesole,  and  traversed  it, 
slaying  scarce  any  man  nor  doing  any  harm,  save  to  those 
who  opposed  them.  And  when  the  Fiesolani  saw  themselves 
to  be  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  surprised  by  the  Florentines, 
part  of  them  which  were  able  fled  to  the  fortress,  which  was 
very  strong,  and  long  time  maintained  themselves  there.  The 
city  at  the  foot  of  the  fortress  having  been  taken  and  over- 
run by  the  Florentines,  and  the  strongholds  and  they  which 
opposed  themselves  being  likewise  taken,  the  common  people 
surrendered  themselves  on  condition  that  they  should  not 
be  slain  nor  robbed  of  their  goods ;  the  Florentines  working 
their  will  to  destroy  the  city,  and  keeping  possession  of  the 
bishop's  palace.  Then  the  Florentines  made  a  covenant, 
that  whosoever  desired  to  leave  the  city  of  Fiesole  and  come 
and  dwell  in  Florence  might  come  safe  and  sound  with  all 
his  goods  and  possessions,  or  might  go  to  any  place  which 
pleased  him,  for  the  which  thing  they  came  down  in  great 
numbers  to  dwell  in  Florence,  whereof  there  were  and  are 
great  families  in  Florence.  And  when  this  was  done,  and 
the  city  was  without  inhabitants  and  goods,  the  Florentines 
caused  it  to  be  pulled  down  and  destroyed,  all  save  the 
bishop's  palace  and  certain  other  churches  and  the  fortress, 
which  still  held  out,  and  did  not  surrender  under  the  said 
conditions."  Fifteen  years  later  we  read  again :  "  In  the 
year  of  Christ  1125  the  Florentines  came  with  an  army  to 
the  fortress  of  Fiesole,  which  was  still  standing  and  very 
strong,  and  it  was  held  by  certain  gentlemen  Cattani  which 
had  been  of  the  city  of  Fiesole,  and  thither  resorted  highway- 
men and  refugees  and  evil  men,  which  sometimes  infested  the 
roads  and  country  of  Florence ;  and  the  Florentines  carried 
on  the  siege  so  long  that  for  lack  of  victuals  the  fortress 
surrendered,  albeit  they  would  never  have  taken  it  by  storm, 
and  they  caused  it  to  be  all  cast  down  and  destroyed  to  the 
foundations,  and  they  made  a  decree  that  none  should  ever 
dare  to  build  a  fortress  again  at  Fiesole."  ^ 

'  Villani,  Cronica,  translated  by  R.  E.  Sclfc  (London,  1906),  pp.  71-3,  97. 


FIESOLE  351 

Now  whether  Villani  is  strictly  right  in  his  chronicle  matters 
little  or  nothing.  We  know  that  Fiesole  was  an  Etruscan 
city,  that  with  the  rise  of  Rome,  like  the  rest,  she  became  a 
Roman  colony ;  all  this  too  her  ruins  confirm.  With  the  fall 
of  Rome,  and  the  barbarian  invasions,  she  was  perfectly  suited 
to  the  needs  of  the  Teutonic  invader.  What  hatred  Florence 
had  for  her  was  probably  due  to  the  fact  that  she  was  a 
stronghold  of  the  barbarian  nobles,  and  the  fact  that  in 
1 010,  as  Villani  says,  the  Fiesolani  were  content  to  leave 
the  city  and  descend  to  Florence,  while  the  citadel  held 
out  and  had  to  be  dealt  with  later,  goes  to  prove  that  the 
fight  was  rather  between  the  Latin  commune  of  Florence 
and  the  pirate  nobles  of  Fiesole  than  between  Florence  and 
Fiesole  itself.  Certainly  with  the  destruction  of  the  alien 
power  at  Fiesole  the  city  of  Florence  gained  every  immediate 
security ;  the  last  great  fortress  in  her  neighbourhood  was 
destroyed. 

To-day  Fiesole  consists  of  a  windy  Piazza,  in  which  a 
campanile  towers  between  two  hills  covered  with  houses  and 
churches  and  a  host  of  narrow  lanes.  In  the  Piazza  stands 
the  Duomo,  founded  in  1028  by  Bishop  Jacopo  Bavaro,  who 
no  doubt  wished  to  bring  his  throne  up  the  hill  from  the 
Badia,  where  of  old  it  was  established.  Restored  though  it  is, 
the  church  keeps  something  of  its  old  severity  and  beauty, 
standing  there  like  a  fortress  between  the  hills  and  between 
the  valleys.  It  is  of  basilica  form,  with  a  nave  and  aisles 
flanked  by  sixteen  columns  of  sandstone.  As  at  S.  Miniato, 
the  choir  is  raised  over  a  lofty  crypt.  There  is  not  perhaps 
much  of  interest  in  the  church,  but  over  the  west  door  you 
may  see  a  statue  of  S.  Romolo,  while  in  the  choir  in  the 
Salutati  Chapel  there  is  the  masterpiece  of  Mino  da  Fiesole, 
the  tomb  of  Bishop  Salutati,  who  died  in  1465,  and  opposite 
a  marble  reredos  of  Madonna  between  S.  Antonio  and  S. 
Leonardo,  by  the  same  master.  The  beautiful  bust  of  Bishop 
Leonardo  over  his  tomb  is  an  early  work,  and  the  tomb  itself 
is  certainly  among  the  most  original  and  charming  works  of 
the  master.     If  the  reredos  is  not  so  fine,  it  is  perhaps  only 


352    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

that  with  so  splendid  ai  work  before  us  we  are  content  only 
with  the  best  of  all. 

But  it  is  not  to  see  a  church  that  we  have  wandered  up  to 
Fiesole,  for  in  the  country  certainly  the  churches  are  less 
than  an  olive  garden,  and  the  pictures  are  shamed  by  the 
flowers  that  run  over  the  hills.  Lounging  about  this  old 
fortress  of  a  city,  one  is  caught  rather  by  the  aspect  of 
natural  things — Val  d'Arno,  far  and  far  away,  and  at  last  a 
glimpse  of  the  Apennines ;  Val  di  Mugnone  towards  Monte 
Senario,  the  night  of  cypresses  about  Vincigliata,  the  olives 
of  Maiano — than  by  the  churches  scattered  among  the  trees  or 
hidden  in  the  narrow  ways  that  everywhere  climb  the  hills  to 
lose  themselves  at  last  in  the  woodland  or  in  the  comlands 
among  the  vines.  You  wander  behind  the  Duomo  into  the 
Scavi,  and  it  is  not  the  Roman  Baths  you  go  to  see  or  the 
Etruscan  walls  and  the  well-preserved  Roman  theatre :  you 
watch  the  clouds  on  the  mountains,  the  sun  in  the  valley,  the 
shadows  on  the  hills,  listen  to  a  boy  singing  to  his  goats,  play 
with  a  little  girl  who  has  slipped  her  hand  in  yours  looking  for 
soldi,  or  wonder  at  the  host  of  flowers  that  has  run  even 
among  these  ruins.  Even  from  the  windows  of  the  Palazzo 
Pretorio,  which  for  some  foolish  reason  you  have  entered  on 
your  way  to  the  hills,  you  do  not  really  see  the  statues  and 
weapons  of  these  forgotten  Etruscan  people,  but  you  watch  the 
sun  that  has  perhaps  suddenly  lighted  up  the  Duomo,  or  the 
wind  that,  like  a  beautiful  thought,  for  a  moment  has  turned 
the  hills  to  silver.  Or  if  it  be  up  to  S.  Francesco  you  climb,  the 
old  acropolis  of  Fiesole,  above  the  palace  of  the  bishop  and 
the  Seminary,  it  will  surely  be  rather  to  look  over  the  valley 
to  the  farthest  hills,  where  Val  di  Greve  winds  towards  Siena, 
than  to  enter  a  place  which,  Franciscan  though  it  be,  has 
nothing  to  show  half  so  fair  as  this  laughing  country,  paese 
lieto,  or  that  Tuscan  cypress  on  the  edge  of  that  grove  of  olives. 

That  love  of  country  life,  no  longer  characteristic  of  the 
Florentines,  which  we  are  too  apt  to  consider  almost  wholly 
English,  was  long  ago  certainly  one  of  the  most  delightful 
traits  of  the  Tuscan  character;   for   Siena  was  not   behind 


FIESOLE  353 

Florence  in  her  delight  in  the  life  of  the  villa.  ^  It  is  perhaps 
in  the  Commentaries  of  Pius  ii  that  a  love  of  country  byways, 
the  lanes  and  valleys  about  his  home,  through  which,  gouty 
and  old,  he  would  have  himself  carried  in  a  litter,  is  expressed 
for  the  first  time  with  a  true  understanding  and  appreciation 
of  things  which  for  us  have  come  to  mean  a  good  half  of  life. 
No  such  lovely  descriptions  of  scenery  may  be  found  perhaps 
in  any  Florentine  writer  before  Lorenzo  Magnifico,  unless  indeed 
it  be  in  the  verse  of  Sacchetti.  Yet  the  Florentine  burgess  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  the  very  man  whose  simple  and  hard 
common-sense  got  him  wealth,  or  at  least  a  fine  competence, 
and,  as  he  has  told  us,  a  good  housewife,  and  made  him  one  of 
the  toughest  traders  in  Europe,  would  become  almost  a  poet 
in  his  country  house.  Old  Agnolo  Pandolfini,  talking  to  his 
sons,  and  teaching  them  his  somewhat  narrow  yet  wholesome 
and  delightful  wisdom,  continually  reminds  himself  of  those 
villas  near  Florence,  some  like  palaces, — Poggio  Gherardo  for 
instance, — some  like  castles, — Vincigliata  perhaps, — "  in  the 
purest  air,  in  a  laughing  country  of  lovely  views,  where  there 
are  no  fogs  nor  bitter  winds,  but  always  fresh  water  and  every- 
thing pure  and  healthy."  Certainly  Cosimo  de'  Medici  was 
not  the  first  Florentine  to  retire  from  the  city  perhaps  to 
Careggi,  perhaps  to  S.  Domenico,  perhaps  farther  still ;  for 
already  in  Boccaccio's  day  we  hear  the  praise  of  country  life, 
— his  description  of  Villa  Palmieri,  for  instance,  when  at  the 
end  of  the  second  day  of  the  Decamerone  those  seven  ladies 
and  their  three  comrades  leave  Poggio  Gherardo  for  that  palace 
"about  two  miles  westward,"  whither  they  came  at  six  o'clock 
of  a  Sunday  morning  in  the  year  1 348.  "  When  they  had 
entered  and  inspected  everything,  and  seen  that  the  halls  and 
rooms  had  been  cleaned  and  decorated,  and  plentifully  sup- 
plied with  all  that  was  needed  for  sweet  living,  they  praised 
its  beauty  and  good  order,  and  admired  the  owner's  mag- 
nificence. And  on  descending,  even  more  delighted  were 
they  with  the  pleasant  and  spacious  courts,  the  cellars  filled 

^  Cf.  Fortini  and  Sermini  for  instance.      See  Symonds'  Nfw  Italian 
Sketches  (Tauchnitz  Ed.),  p.  37. 

23 


354    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

with  choice  wines,  and  the  beautifully  fresh  water  which  was 
everywhere  round  about.  .  .  .  Then  they  went  into  the 
garden,  which  was  on  one  side  of  the  palace  and  was 
surrounded  by  a  wall,  and  the  beauty  and  magnificence  of  it 
at  first  sight  made  them  eager  to  examine  it  more  closely.  It 
was  crossed  in  all  directions  by  long,  broad,  and  straight 
walks,  over  which  the  vines,  which  that  year  made  a  great  show 
of  giving  many  grapes,  hung  gracefully  in  arched  festoons,  and 
being  then  in  full  blossom,  filled  the  whole  garden  with  their 
sweet  smell,  and  this,  mingled  with  the  odours  of  the  other 
flowers,  made  so  sweet  a  perfume  that  they  seemed  to  be  in 
the  spicy  gardens  of  the  East.  The  sides  of  the  walks  were 
almost  closed  with  red  and  white  roses  and  with  jessamine, 
so  that  they  gave  sweet  odours  and  shade  not  only  in  the 
morning  but  when  the  sun  was  high,  so  that  one  might  walk 
there  all  day  without  fear.  What  flowers  there  were  there, 
how  various  and  how  ordered,  it  would  take  too  long  to  tell, 
but  there  was  not  one  which  in  our  climate  is  to  be  praised, 
which  was  not  to  be  found  there  abundantly.  Perhaps  the 
most  delightful  thing  therein  was  a  meadow  in  the  midst,  of 
the  finest  grass  and  all  so  green  that  it  seemed  almost  black,  all 
sprinkled  with  a  thousand  various  flowers,  shut  in  by  oranges 
and  cedars,  the  which  bore  the  ripe  fruit  and  the  young  fruit 
too  and  the  blossom,  offering  a  shade  most  grateful  to  the 
eyes  and  also  a  delicious  perfume.  In  the  midst  of  this 
meadow  there  was  a  fountain  of  the  whitest  marble  marvellously 
carved,  and  within — I  do  not  know  whether  artificially  or  from 
a  natural  spring — threw  so  much  water  and  so  high  towards 
the  sky  through  a  statue  which  stood  there  on  a  pedestal,  so 
that  it  would  not  have  needed  more  to  turn  a  mill.  The 
water  fell  back  again  with  a  delicious  sound  into  the  clear 
waters  of  the  basin,  and  the  surplus  was  carried  away  through 
a  subterranean  way  into  little  waterways  most  beautifully  and 
artfully  made  about  the  meadow,  and  afterwards  ran  into 
others  round  about,  and  so  watered  every  part  of  the  garden ; 
it  collected  at  length  in  one  place,  whence  it  had  entered  the 
beautiful  garden,  turning  two  mills,  much  to  the  profit,  as  you 


SETTIGNANO  355 

may  suppose,  of  the  signore,  and  pouring  down  at  last  in  a 
stream  clear  and  sweet  into  the  valley." 

If  this  should  seem  a  mere  pleasaunce  of  delight,  the 
vision  of  a  poet,  the  garden  of  a  dream,  we  have  only  to 
remember  how  realistically  and  simply  Boccaccio  has  described 
for  us  that  plague-stricken  city,  scarcely  more  than  a  mile 
away,  to  be  assured  of  its  truthfulness :  and  then  listen  to 
Albert! — or  old  Agnolo  Pandolfini,  is  it  ? — in  his  Trattato  del 
Governo  della  Famtglia,  one  of  the  most  delightful  books  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  He  certainly  was  no  poet,  yet  with 
what  enthusiasm  and  happiness  he  speaks  of  his  villa,  how 
comely  and  useful  it  is,  so  that  while  everything  else  brings 
labour,  danger,  suspicion,  harm,  fear,  and  repentance,  the 
villa  will  bring  none  of  these,  but  a  pure  happiness,  a  real 
consolation.  Yes,  it  is  really  as  an  escape  from  all  the  care 
and  anxiety  of  business,  of  the  wool  or  silk  trade,  which  he 
praised  so  much,  that  he  loves  the  country.  "  La  Villa,  the 
country,  one  soon  finds,  is  always  gracious,  faithful,  and  true ; 
if  you  govern  it  with  diligence  and  love,  it  will  never  be 
satisfied  with  what  it  does  for  you,  always  it  will  add 
recompense  to  recompense.  In  the  spring  the  villa  gives 
you  continual  delight ;  green  leaves,  flowers,  odours,  songs, 
and  in  every  way  makes  you  happy  and  jocund  :  all  smiles  on 
you  and  promises  a  fine  harvest,  filling  you  with  good  hope, 
delight,  and  pleasure.  Yes  indeed,  how  courteous  is  the 
villa  !  She  gives  you  now  one  fruit,  now  another,  never  leaving 
you  without  some  of  her  own  joy.  For  in  autumn  she  pays 
you  for  all  your  trouble,  fruit  out  of  all  proportion  to  your 
merit,  recompense,  and  thanks ;  and  how  willingly  and  with 
what  abundance,  twelve  for  one :  for  a  little  sweet,  many 
barrels  of  wine,  and  for  what  is  old  in  the  house,  the  villa  will 
give  you  new,  seasoned,  clear,  and  good.  She  fills  the  house 
the  winter  long  with  grapes,  both  fresh  and  dry,  with  plums, 
walnuts,  pears,  apples,  almonds,  filberts,  giuggiole,  pomegranates, 
and  other  wholesome  fruits,  and  apples  fragrant  and  beautiful. 
Nor  in  winter  will  she  forget  to  be  liberal  j  she  sends  you 
wood,  oil,  vine  branches,  laurels,  junipers  to  keep  out  snow 


356    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

and  wind,  and  then  she  comforts  you  with  the  sun,  offering 
you  the  hare  and  the  roe,  and  the  field  to  follow  them.  .  .  ." 
Nor  are  the  joys  of  summer  less,  for  you  may  read  Greek  and 
Latin  in  the  shadow  of  the  courtyard  where  the  fountains 
splash,  while  your  girls  are  learning  songs  and  your  boys  are 
busy  with  the  contadini,  in  the  vineyards  or  beside  the  stream. 
It  is  a  spirit  of  pure  delight  we  find  there  in  that  old  townsman 
for  country  life,  simple  and  quiet,  after  the  noise  and  sharpness 
of  the  market-place.  And  certainly,  as  we  pass  from  Fiesole 
down  the  new  road  where  the  team  runs,  turning  into  the 
lanes  again  just  by  Villa  Galetta,  on  our  way  to  Maiano,  we 
may  fancy  we  see  many  places  where  such  a  life  as  that  has 
always  been  lived,  and,  as  I  know,  in  some  is  lived  to-day. 
Everywhere  on  these  hills  you  find  villas,  and  every  villa  has 
a  garden,  and  every  garden  has  a  fountain,  where  all  day  long 
the  sun  plays  with  the  slim  dancing  water  and  the  contadine 
sing  of  love  in  the  vineyards. 

Maiano  itself  is  but  a  group  of  such  places,  among  them  a 
great  villa  painted  in  the  manner  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
spoiled  a  little  by  modernity.  You  can  leave  it  behind, 
passing  into  a  lane  behind  Poggio  Gherardo,  where  it  is  roses, 
roses  all  the  way,  for  the  podere  is  hedged  with  a  hedge  of 
roses  pink  and  white,  where  the  iris  towers  too,  streaming  its 
violet  banners.  Presently,  as  you  pass  slowly  on  your  way — 
for  in  a  garden  who  would  go  quickly  ? — you  come  upon  the 
little  church  of  S.  Martino  a  Mensola,  built,  as  I  think 
indeed,  so  lovely  it  is,  by  Brunellesco,  on  a  little  rising  ground 
above  a  shrunken  stream,  and  that  is  Mensola  on  her  way  to 
Amo.  She  lags  for  sure,  because,  lost  in  Amo,  she  will  see 
nothing  again  so  fair  as  her  own  hills. 

S.  Martino  a  Mensola  is  very  old,  for  it  is  said  that  in  the 
year  800  an  oratory  stood  here,  dedicated  to  S.  Martino,  and 
that  il  Beato  Andrea  di  Scozia,  Blessed  Andrew  of  Scotland, 
then  archdeacon  to  the  bishopric  of  Fiesole,  rebuilt  it  and 
endowed  a  little  monastery,  where  he  went  to  live  with  a  few 
companions,  taking  the  rule  of  St.  Benedict.  Carocci  tells  us 
that  about  1550  it  passed  from  the  Benedictines  to  certain 


SETTIGKAKO  357 

monks  who  already  had  a  house  at  S.  Andrea  in  Mercato 
Vecchio  of  Florence.  In  1450  the  monastery  returned  to 
Benedictines,  coming  into  the  possession  of  the  monks  of  the 
Badia.  Restored  many  times,  the  church  was  rebuilt  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  it  may  well  be  by  Brunellesco ;  the  portico, 
restored  in  1857,  was  added  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Within, 
the  church  is  charming,  having  a  nave  and  two  aisles,  with 
four  small  chapels  and  a  great  one,  which  belonged  to  the 
Zati  family.  And  then,  not  without  a  certain  surprise,  you 
come  here  upon  many  pictures  still  in  their  own  place,  over 
the  altars  of  what  is  now  a  village  church.  Over  the  high 
altar  is  a  great  ancona  divided  into  many  compartments :  the 
Virgin  with  our  Lord,  S.  Maria  Maddalena,  S.  Niccolb,  St. 
Catharine  of  Alexandria,  S.  Giuliano,  S.  Amerigo  of  Hungary, 
S.  Martino,  S.  Gregorio,  S.  Antonio,  and  the  donor,  Amerigo 
Zati.  Carocci  suggests  Bernardo  Orcagna  as  the  painter ; 
whoever  he  may  have  been,  this  altarpiece  is  beautiful,  and 
the  more  beautiful  too  since  it  is  in  its  own  place.  In  the 
Gherardi  Chapel  there  is  an  Annunciation  given  to  Beato 
Angelico,  while  in  another  is  a  Madonna  and  Saints  by  Neri 
di  Bicci.  In  the  chapel  of  the  Cecchini  there  is  a  fine 
fifteenth-century  work  attributed  to  Cosimo  Rosselli.  The 
old  monastery  is  to-day  partly  the  canonica  and  partly  a  villa. 
Following  the  stream  upwards,  we  pass  under  and  then  round 
the  beautiful  Villa  I  Tatti  that  of  old  belonged  to  the  Zati 
family  whose  altarpiece  is  in  S.  Martino,  and  winding  up  the 
road  to  Vincigliata,  you  soon  enter  the  cypress  woods.  All 
the  way  to  your  left  Poggio  Gherardo  has  towered  over  you, 
Poggio  Gherardo  where  the  two  first  days  of  the  Decamerone 
were  passed.  How  well  Boccaccio  describes  the  place : 
"On  the  top  of  a  hill  there  stood  a  palace  which  was 
surrounded  by  beautiful  gardens,  delightful  meadows,  and 
cool  springs,  and  in  the  midst  was  a  great  and  beautiful  court 
with  galleries,  halls,  and  rooms  which  were  adorned  with 
paintings.  .  .  ."  Not  far  away,  Boccaccio  himself  lived  on 
the  podere  of  his  father.  You  come  to  it  if  you  pass  out  of 
the  Vincigliata  road  by  a  pathway  down  to  Frassignaja,  a  little 


35B    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

stream  which,  in  its  hurry  to  reach  Mensola,  its  sister  here, 
leaps  sheer  down  the  rocks  in  a  tiny  waterfall.  This  is  the 
"shady  valley"  perhaps  where  in  the  evening  the  ladies  of 
the  Decamerone  walked  "between  steep  rocks  to  a  crystal 
brook  which  poured  down  from  a  little  hill,  and  there  they 
splashed  about  with  bare  hands  and  feet,  and  talked  merrily 
with  one  another."  Crossing  this  brook  and  following  the 
path  round  the  hillside,  where  so  often  the  nightingale  sings, 
you  pass  under  a  little  villa  by  a  stony  way  to  Corbignano, 
and  there,  in  what  may  well  be  the  oldest  house  in  the  place, 
at  the  end  of  the  street,  past  the  miraculous  orange  tree,  just 
where  the  hill  turns  out  of  sight,  you  see  Boccaccio's  house, 
Casa  di  Boccaccio,  as  it  is  written  ;  and  though  the  old  tower 
has  become  a  loggia,  and  much  has  been  rebuilt,  you  may 
still  see  the  very  ancient  stones  of  the  place  jutting  into  the 
lane,  where  the  water  sings  so  after  the  rain,  and  the  olives 
whisper  softly  all  night  long,  and  God  walks  always  among 
the  vines. 

Turning  then  uphill,  you  come  at  last  to  a  group  of  houses, 
and  where  the  way  turns  suddenly  there  is  the  Oratorio  del 
Vannella,  in  the  parish  of  Settignano  :  it  is  truly  just  an  old 
wayside  tabernacle,  but  within  is  one  of  the  earliest  works, 
a  Presentation  in  the  Temple,  of  Botticelli,  whose  father  had 
a  podere  hereabout.  If  you  follow  where  the  road  leads,  and 
turn  at  last  where  you  may,  past  the  cemetery,  you  come  to 
Settignano,  founded  by  Septimus  Severus  or  by  the  Settimia 
family,  it  matters  little  which,  for  its  glory  now  lies  with 
Desiderio  the  sculptor,  who  was  bom,  it  seems,  at  Corbignano, 
and  Antonio  and  Bernardo  Rossellino,  who  were  born  here. 
There  is  no  other  village  near  Florence  that  has  so  smiling  a 
face  as  Settignano  among  the  gardens.  There  is  little  or 
nothing  to  see,  though  the  church  of  S.  Maria  has  a  lovely 
terracotta  of  Madonna  with  Our  Lord  between  two  angels  in 
the  manner  of  the  della  Robbia ;  but  the  little  town  is 
delightful,  full  of  stonecutters  and  sculptors,  still  at  work  in 
their  shops  as  they  were  in  the  great  days  of  Michelangelo. 
Far  away  behind  the  hill  of  cypresses  Vincigliata  still  stands 


SEITIGNANO  359 

on  guard,  on  the  hilltop  Castel  di  Poggio  looks  into  the  valley 
of  Ontignano  and  guards  the  road  to  Arezzo  and  Rome.  Here 
there  is  peace ;  not  too  far  from  the  city  nor  too  near  the  gate, 
as  I  said  :  and  so  to  Firenze  in  the  twilight. 

Note. — /  have  said  little  of  the  country  places  about 
Florence^  Settimo,  the  Certosa  in  Val  (TEma,  the  Incontro 
and  such,  because  there  seemed  to  be  too  much  to  say,  and  I 
wanted  to  treat  of  them  in  a  book  that  should  be  theirs  only. 


XXVI 

VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASEN- 
TINO,  CAMALDOLI  AND  LA  VERNA 


Vallombrosa 

THERE  are  many  ways  that  lead  from  Florence  to 
Vallombrosa — by  the  hills,  by  the  valley,  and  by  rail — 
and  the  best  of  these  is  by  the  valley,  but  the  shortest  is  by 
rail,  for  by  that  way  you  may  leave  Florence  at  noon  and  be 
in  your  inn  by  three ;  but  if  you  go  by  road  you  must  set  out 
at  dawn,  so  that  when  evening  falls  you  may  hear  the  whisper- 
ing woods  of  the  rainy  valley  Vallis  Imbrosa  at  your  journey's 
end.  That  is  a  pleasant  way  that  takes  you  first  to  Settignano 
out  of  the  dust  of  Via  Aretino  by  the  river.  Thence  you 
may  go  by  the  byways  to  Compiobbi,  past  Villa  Gamberaja 
and  Terenzano,  among  the  terraced  vines  and  the  old  olives, 
coming  to  the  river  at  last  at  Compiobbi,  as  I  said,  just  under 
Montacuto  with  its  old  castle,  now  a  tiny  village,  on  the  road 
to  the  Incontro,  that  convent  on  the  hilltop  where,  as  it  is  said, 
St.  Francis  met  St.  Dominic  on  the  way  to  Rome.  The  Via 
Aretina,  deep  in  dust  that  has  already  whitened  the  cypresses, 
passes  through  Compiobbi  on  its  way  southward  and  west ; 
but  for  me  I  will  cross  the  river,  and  go  once  more  by  the 
byways  through  the  valley  now,  where  the  wind  whispers  in 
the  poplars  beside  Arno,  and  the  river  passes  singing  gently 
on  its  way.  It  is  a  long  road  full  of  the  quiet  life  of  the 
country — here  a  little  farm,  there  a  village  full  of  children ; 

360 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     361 

a  vineyard  heavy  with  grapes,  where  a  man  walks  leisurely, 
talking  to  his  dog,  the  hose  on  his  shoulders ;  a  little  copse 
that  runs  down  to  the  stones  of  Arno,  where  a  little  girl  sits 
spinning  with  her  few  goats,  singing  softly  some  endless  chant ; 
a  golden  olive  garden  among  the  corn,  where  there  is  no 
sound  but  the  song  of  the  cicale  that  sing  all  day  long.  And 
there  are  so  many  windings,  and  though  the  road  leaves  the 
river,  it  seems  always  to  be  returning,  always  to  be  bidding 
good-bye :  sometimes  it  climbs  high  up  above  the  stream, 
which  just  there  is  very  still,  sleeping  in  the  shadow  under  the 
trees ;  sometimes  it  dips  quite  down  to  the  river  bank,  a  great 
stretch  of  dusty  shingle  across  which  the  stream  passes  like  a 
road  of  silver.  Slowly  in  front  of  me  a  great  flat-bottomed 
boat  crossed  the  river  with  two  great  white  oxen.  And  then 
at  a  turning  of  the  way  a  flock  .of  sheep  were  coming  on  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  when  suddenly,  at  a  word  from  the  shepherd 
who  led  them,  they  crossed  the  wide  beach  to  drink  at  the 
river,  while  he  waited  under  the  trees  by  the  roadside.  There 
were  trees  full  of  cherries  too,  so  full  that  in  the  sunshine 
they  seemed  to  dance  for  joy,  clothed  all  in  scarlet,  so  red,  so 
ripe  was  the  fruit.  Presently  I  came  upon  an  old  man  high 
up  in  a  tree  gathering  them  in  a  great  basket,  and  since  I 
was  thirsty  I  asked  him  for  drink,' and  since  I  was  hungry 
I  asked  him  for  food.  He  climbed  down  the  great  ladder, 
coming  towards  me  kindly  enough,  and  drew  me  into  the 
shadow.  "  Eat  as  you  will,  signore,  and  quench  your  thirst," 
said  he,  as  he  lifted  a  handful  of  the  shining  fruit,  a  handful 
running  over,  and  offered  it  to  me.  And  he  stayed  with  me 
and  gave  me  his  conversation.  So  I  dined,  and  when  I  had 
finished,  "  Open  that  great  sack  of  yours,"  said  he,  "  and  I  will 
send  you  on  your  way,"  but  I  would  not.  Just  then  four 
others  came  along  in  the  sun,  and  on  their  heads  were  great 
bags  of  leaves,  and  he  bade  them  come  and  eat  in  the  shade. 
Then  said  I,  "  What  are  those  leaves  that  you  have  there,  and 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ? "  And  they  laughed, 
making  answer  that  they  were  silk.  *'  Silk  ?  "  said  I.  "  Silk 
truly,"  said  they,  "  since  they  are  the  leaves  of  the  mulberry  on 


362    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

which  the  little  worm  lives  that  presently  will  make  it."  So  I 
went  on  my  way  with  thanks,  thinking  in  my  heart :  Are  we 
too  then  but  leaves  for  worms,  out  of  which,  as  by  a  miracle, 
will  pass  the  endless  thread  of  an  immortal  life  ? 

So  I  came  to  Pontassieve,  crossing  the  river  again  where  the 
road  begins  to  leave  it.  There  is  nothing  good  to  say  of 
Pontassieve,  which  has  no  beauty  in  itself,  and  where  folk  are 
rough  and  given  to  robbery.  A  glance  at  the  inn — for  so  they 
call  it — and  I  passed  on,  glad  in  my  heart  that  I  had  dined  in 
the  fields.  A  mile  beyond  the  town,  on  the  Via  Aretina,  the 
road  of  the  Consuma  Pass  leaves  the  highway  on  the  left,  and 
by  this  way  it  is  good  to  go  into  Casentino ;  for  any  of  the 
inns  in  the  towns  of  the  valley  will  send  to  Pontassieve  to 
meet  you,  and  it  is  better  to  enter  thus  than  by  railway  from 
Arezzo.  However,  I  was  for  Vallombrosa ;  so  I  kept  to  the 
Aretine  way.  I  left  it  at  last  at  S.  Ellero,  whence  the  little 
railway  climbs  up  to  Saltino,  passing  first  through  the  olives 
and  vines,  then  through  the  chestnuts,  the  oaks,  and  the 
beeches,  till  at  last  the  high  lawns  appeared,  and  evening  fell 
at  the  last  turn  of  the  mule  path  over  the  hill  as  I  came  out 
of  the  forest  before  the  monastery  itself,  almost  like  a  village 
or  a  stronghold,  with  square  towers  and  vast  buildings  too, 
fallen,  alas !  from  their  high  office,  to  serve  as  a  school  of 
forestry,  an  inn  for  the  summer  visitor  who  has  fled  from  the 
heat  of  the  valleys.     And  there  I  slept. 

It  is  best  always  to  come  to  any  place  for  the  first  time  at 
evening  or  even  at  night,  and  then  in  the  morning  to  return  a 
little  on  your  way  and  come  to  it  again.  Wandering  there, 
out  of  the  sunshine,  in  the  stillness  of  the  forest  itself,  with 
the  ruin  of  a  thousand  winters  under  my  feet,  how  could  I  be 
but  angry  that  modern  Italy — ah,  so  small  a  thing  ! — has  chased 
out  the  great  and  ancient  order  that  had  dwelt  here  so  long 
in  quietness,  and  has  established  after  our  pattern  a  utilitarian 
school,  and  thus  what  was  once  a  guest-house  is  now  a  pension 
of  tourists.  But  in  the  abbey  itself  I  forgot  my  anger,  I  was 
ashamed  of  my  contempt  of  those  who  could  do  so  small  a 
thing.     This  place  was  founded  because  a  young  man  refused 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTlNO    363 

to  hate  his  enemy ;  every  stone  here  is  a  part  of  the  mountain, 
every  beam  a  tree  of  the  forest,  the  forest  that  has  been 
renewed  and  destroyed  a  thousand  times,  that  has  never  known 
resentment,  because  it  thinks  only  of  life.  Yes,  this  is  no 
place  for  hatred ;  since  he  who  founded  it  loved  his  enemies, 
I  also  will  let  them  pass  by,  and  since  I  too  am  of  that 
company  which  thinks  only  of  life,  what  is  the  modern  world 
to  me  with  its  denial,  its  doubt,  its  contemptible  materialism, 
its  destruction,  its  misery  ?  Like  winter,  it  will  flee  away  before 
the  first  footsteps  of  our  spring. 

It  was  S.  Giovanni  Gualberto  who  founded  the  Vallombrosan 
Order  and  established  here  an  abbey,  whose  daughter  we  now 
see.  Born  about  the  year  1000,  he  was  the  son  of  Gualberto 
dei  Visdomini,  Signore  of  Petroio  in  Val  di  Pesa,  of  the  great 
family  who  lived  in  St.  Peter's  Gate  in  Florence,  and  were, 
according  to  Villani,  the  patrons  of  the  bishopric.  In  those 
days  murder  daily  walked  the  streets  of  every  Tuscan  city, 
and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  before  Giovanni  was  eighteen 
years  old  his  brother  Ugo  had  been  murdered  by  one  of  that 
branch  of  his  own  house  which  was  at  feud  with  Gualberto. 
Urged  on  by  his  father,  who,  we  may  be  sure,  did  not  spare 
himself  or  his  friends  in  seeking  revenge,  Giovanni  was  ever 
on  the  watch  for  his  enemy,  his  brother's  murderer ;  and  it 
chanced  that  as  he  came  into  Florence  on  Good  Friday 
morning  in  1018,  just  before  he  got  to  S.  Miniato  al  Monte,  at 
a  turning  of  that  steep  way  he  came  upon  him  face  to  face 
suddenly  in  the  sunlight.  Surely  God  had  delivered  him  into 
his  hands  !  Giovanni  was  on  horseback  with  his  servant,  and 
then  the  hill  was  in  his  favour ;  the  other  was  alone.  Seeing 
he  had  no  chance,  for  the  steel  was  already  cold  on  his  jumping 
throat,  he  sank  on  his  knees,  and,  crossing  his  arms  in  the 
form  of  Holy  Cross,  he  prayed  hard  to  the  Lord  Jesus  to  save 
his  soul  alive.  Hearing  that  blessed,  beautiful  name  in  the 
stillness  of  that  morning,  when  all  the  bells  are  silent  and  the 
very  earth  hushed  for  Christ's  death,  Giovanni  could  not 
strike,  but  instead  lifted  up  his  enemy  and  embraced  him, 
saying,    "  I  give  you  not  your  life  only,  but  my  love  too  for 


364    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

ever.  Pray  for  me  that  God  may  pardon  my  sin."  So  they 
went  on  their  way ;  but  Giovanni,  when  he  came  to  the 
monastery  of  S.  Miniato  of  the  Benedictines,  stole  into  the 
church  and  prayed  before  the  great  Crucifix,^  begging  God  to 
pardon  him  ;  and  while  he  prayed  thus,  the  Christ  miraculously 
bowed  his  head,  "as  it  were  to  give  him  a  token  how  acceptable 
was  this  sacrifice  of  his  resentment." 

How  little  that  sacrifice  seems  to  us !  But  it  was  a  great, 
an  unheard-of  thing  in  those  days.  And  for  this  cause, 
maybe,  Giovanni  proposed  to  remain  with  the  monks,  to  be 
received  as  a  novice  among  them,  and  to  forsake  the  world 
for  ever.  And  they  received  him.  Now  when  Gualberto 
heard  it,  he  was  first  very  much  astonished  and  then  more 
angry,  so  that  he  went  presently  to  take  Giovanni  out  of  that 
place ;  but  he  would  not,  for  before  his  father  he  cut  off  his 
hair  and  clothed  himself  in  a  habit  which  he  borrowed.  Then, 
seeing  his  purpose,  his  father  let  him  alone.  So  for  some 
four  years  Giovanni  lived  a  monk  at  S.  Miniato ;  when,  the 
old  Abbot  dying,  his  companions  wished  to  make  him  their 
Abbot,  but  he  would  not,  setting  out  immediately  with  one 
companion  to  search  for  a  closer  solitude.  And  to  this  end 
he  went  to  Camaldoli  to  consult  with  S.  Romualdo ;  but 
even  there,  in  that  quiet  and  ordered  place,  he  did  not  seem 
to  have  found  what  he  sought.  So  he  set  out  again,  not 
without  tears,  coming  at  last,  on  this  side  of  Casentino,  upon 
this  high  valley,  Acqua  Bella,  as  it  was  then  called,  because 
of  its  brooks.  It  belonged,  with  all  the  forest,  to  the  Contessa 
Itta  dei  Guidi,  the  Abbess  of  S.  EUero,  who  gladly  presented 
Giovanni  with  land  for  his  monastery,  and  that  he  built  of 
timber.  Nor  was  he  alone,  for  he  had  found  there  already 
two  hermits,  who  agreed  to  join  him ;  so  under  the  rule  of 
St.  Benedict  the  Vallombrosan  Order  was  founded.^     Of  S. 

'  Now  in  S.  Triniti  in  Firenze. 

'  Mr.  Montgomery  Carmichael  (On  the  Old  Road,  etc.,  p.  293),  quoting 
from  Don  Diego  de*  Franchi  {Historia  del  Patriarcha  S.  Gioi<angualhertOf 
p.  77 :  Firenze,  1640),  says  that  S.  Roniuald  and  S.  Giovanni  Gualberto 
vowed  eternal  friendship  between  their  Orders,  "and  for  a  long  time,  if  a 
Camaldolcse  was  visiting  Vallombrosa,  he  would  take  off  his  own  and  put 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     365 

Giovanni's  work  in  Florence,  of  his  fight  with  Simony  and 
Nicolaitanism,  this  is  no  place  to  speak.  He  became  the 
hero  of  that  country ;  yet  such  was  his  humility  that  he  never 
proceeded  further  than  minor  orders,  and,  though  Abbot  of 
Vallombrosa,  was  never  a  priest.  He  founded  many  houses, 
S.  Salvi  among  them,  while  his  monks  were  to  be  found  at 
Moscetta,  Passignano,  and  elsewhere  in  Tuscany  and  Umbria ; 
while  his  Order  was  the  first  to  receive  lay  brothers  who, 
while  exempt  from  choir  and  silence,  were  employed  in 
•'external  offices."  It  was  in  July  1073  that  he  fell  sick  at 
Passignano,  and  on  the  12  th  of  that  month  he  died  there. 
Pope  Celestine  in  enrolled  him  among  the  saints  in  1193. 
After  S.  Giovanni's  death  the  Order  seems  to  have  flourished 
by  reason  of  the  bequests  of  the  Countess  Matilda. 

There  is  but  little  of  interest  in  the  present  buildings, 
which  date  from  the  seventeenth  century ;  nor  does  the 
church  itself  possess  anything  of  importance,  unless  it  be  the 
relic  of  S.  Giovanni  enshrined  in  a  casquet  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  a  work  of  Paolo  Soliano. 

About  three  hundred  feet  above  the  monastery  is  the  old 
Hermitage — the  Celle — now  an  hotel.  Here  those  who  sought 
solitude  and  silence  found  their  way,  and  indeed  it  seems  to 
have  been  a  spot  greatly  beloved,  for  a  certain  Pietro  Miglio- 
rotti  of  Poppi  passed  many  years  there,  and  refused  to  think 
of  it  as  anything  but  a  little  paradise;  thus  it  was  called 
Paradisino,  the  name  which  it  bears  to-day.  Far  and  far 
away  lies  Florence,  with  her  beautiful  domes  and  towers,  and 
around  you  are  the  valleys,  Val  d'Arno,  Val  di  Sieve,  while 
behind  you  lies  the  strangest  and  loveliest  of  all,  Val  di 
Casentino,  hidden  in  the  hills  at  the  foot  of  the  great  moun- 
tain, scattered  with  castles,  holy  with  convents ;  and  there 
Dante  has  passed  by  and  St.  Francis,  and  Arno  is  continually 
born  in  the  hills.  And  indeed,  delightful  as  the  woods  of 
Vallombrosa  are,  with  their  ruined  shrines  and  chapels,  their 
great    delicious   solitude,    their    unchangeable    silence    under 

on  a  Vallombrosan  habit  as  a  symbol  that  the  monks  of  the  two  Orders 
were  brothers," 


366    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

everything  but  the  wind,  that  valley-enclosed  Clusendinum 
calls  you  every  day ;  perhaps  in  some  strange  smile  you  catch 
for  a  moment  in  the  sunshine  on  the  woods,  or  in  the  aspect 
of  the  clouds ;  it  will  not  be  long  before  you  are  compelled  to 
set  out  on  your  way  to  seek 

"  Li  ruscelletti,  che  dei  verdi  colli 
Del  Casentin  discendon  giuso  in  Arno." 

II 

Of  the  Way  to  the  Casentino 

And  the  path  lies  through  the  woods.  You  make  your  way 
under  the  mountain  towards  S.  Miniato  in  Alpe,  leaving  it 
at  Villa  del  Lago  for  a  mule-track,  which  leads  you  at  last  to 
Consuma  and  the  road  from  Pontassieve.  The  way  is  beauti- 
ful, and  not  too  hard  to  find,  the  world  about  you  a  continual 
joy.  If  you  start  early,  you  may  breakfast  at  Consuma  (though 
it  were  better,  perhaps,  to  carry  provisions),  for  it  is  but  two 
and  a  half  hours  from  Vallombrosa.  Once  at  Consuma,  the 
way  is  easy  and  good.  You  climb  into  the  pass,  and  in 
another  three  hours  you  may  be  in  Romena,  Pratovecchio,  or 
Stia.  But  there  are  other  ways,  too,  of  which  the  shortest 
is  that  by  the  mountains  from  Vallombrosa  to  Montemignajo — 
that  lofty,  ruined  place ;  and  the  loveliest,  that  from  Vallom- 
brosa to  Raggiola  of  the  forests ;  but  there  be  rambles, 
pilgrimages,  paths  of  delight  unknown  to  any  but  those  who 
hide  for  long  in  the  forests  of  Vallombrosa.  Your  tourist 
knows  them  not ;  he  will  go  by  rail  from  S.  EUero  to  Arezzo, 
and  make  his  way  by  train  up  the  valley  to  Stia ;  your  traveller 
will  walk  from  Vallombrosa  to  Consuma,  where  Giuseppe 
Marari  of  Stia  will  send  a  vettura  to  meet  him.  For  myself 
I  go  afoot,  and  take  a  lift  when  I  can,  and  a  talk  with  it,  and 
this  is  the  happiest  way  of  all  to  travel.  Thus  those  who  are 
young  and  wise  will  set  out,  putting  Dante  in  their  knapsack 
and  Signor  Beni's  little  book  ^  in  their  pocket,  and  with  these 

^  Guida  lUustrata  del  Casentino  da  C.   Bent:   Firenze,   1889.     This, 
perhaps  the  best  guide-book  in  the  Tuscan  language,  is  certainly  the  best 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     367 

two,  a  good  stick,  a  light  heart,  and  a  companion  to  your 
liking,  the  Casentino  is  yours.  And  truly  there  is  no  more 
delightful  place  in  which  to  spend  a  Tuscan  summer.  The 
Pistojese  mountains  are  fine ;  the  air  is  pure  there,  the  woods 
lovely  with  flowers ;  but  they  lack  the  sentimental  charm  of 
Casentino.  The  Garfagnana,  again,  cannot  be  bettered  if  you 
avoid  such  touristry  as  Bagni  di  Lucca ;  but  then  Castelnuovo 
is  bare,  and  though  Barga  is  fine  enough.  Piazza  al  Serchio  is 
a  mere  huddle  of  houses,  and  it  is  not  till  you  reach  Fivizzano 
on  the  other  side  of  the  pass  that  you  find  what  you  want. 
In  Casentino  alone  there  is  everything — mountains,  rivers, 
woods,  and  footways,  convents  and  castles.  And  then  where 
is  there  a  better  inn  than  Albergo  Amorosi  of  Bibbiena, 
unless,  indeed,  it  be  the  unmatched  hostelry  at  Fivizzano  ? 
As  for  inns,  in  general  they  are  fair  enough ;  though  none, 
I  think,  so  good  as  the  Amorosi.  You  may  sleep  and  eat 
comfortably  at  Stia,  either  at  Albergo  Falterona  or  Albergo 
della  Stazione  Alpina.  At  Pratovecchio  there  is  Albergo 
Bastieri ;  at  Poppi  the  Gelati  pension ;  at  Bibbiena  the  Amo- 
rosi, as  I  say.  These  will  be  your  centres,  as  it  were.  At 
La  Verna  you  may  sleep  for  one  night — not  well,  but  bearably; 
at  Camaldoli,  very  well  indeed  in  summer ;  and  then,  wherever 
you  may  be,  you  will  find  a  fine  courtesy,  for  rough  though 
they  seem,  these  peasants  and  such,  are  of  the  Latin  race, 
they  understand  the  amenities.  Saints  have  been  here,  and 
poets :  these  be  no  Teutons,  but  the  good  Latin  people  of 
the  Faith ;  they  will  give  you  greeting  and  welcome. 

Ill 

Stia  and  Monte  Falterona 

Stia   is   a    picturesque    little    city  with    a    curious  arcaded 
Piazza,  a  church  that  within  is  almost   beautiful ;    yet  it  is 

for  the  Casentino.  Those  who  cannot  read  it  must  fall  back  on  the 
charming  and  delightful  Ixjok  by  Miss  Noyes,  TAe  Casentino  and  its  Story  i 
Dent,  1905.  It  is  too  good  a  book  to  be  left  useless  in  its  heavy  bulky 
form.     Perhaps  Miss  Noyes  will  give  us  a  pocket  edition. 


368    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

certainly  not  for  anything  to  be  found  there  that  one  comes 
to  so  ancient  and  yet  so  disappointing  a  place,  but  because 
from  thence  one  may  go  most  easily  to  Falterona  to  see  the 
sun  rise  or  to  find  out  the  springs  of  Arno,  or  to  visit  Porciano, 
S.  Maria  delle  Grazie,  Papiano,  and  the  rest  in  the  hills  that 
shut  in  this  little  town  at  the  head  of  the  long  valley. 

Through  the  great  endless  sheepfolds  you  go  to  Falterona, 
where  the  girls  are  singing  their  endless  chants  all  day  long, 
guarded  by  great  sheep-dogs,  not  the  most  peacable  of  com- 
panions. All  the  summer  long  these  pastures  nourish  the 
sheep,  poor  enough  beasts  at  the  best.  One  recalls  that  in  the 
great  days  the  Guild  of  Wool  got  its  material  from  Flanders 
and  from  England,  because  the  Tuscan  fleece  was  too  hard 
and  poor.  Through  these  lonely  pastures  you  climb  with 
your  guide,  through  forests  of  oak  and  chestnut,  by  many  a 
winding  path,  not  without  difficulty,  to  the  steeper  sides  of  the 
mountain  covered  with  brushwood,  into  the  silence  where 
there  is  no  voice  but  the  voice  of  the  streams.  Here  in  a 
cleft,  under  the  very  summit  of  Falterona,  Arno  rises,  gushing 
endlessly  from  the  rock  in  seven  springs  of  water,  that  will 
presently  gather  to  themselves  a  thousand  other  streams  and 
spread  through  Casentino : 

"  Botoli  trova  poi,  venendo  giuso 
Ringhiosi  piu  che  non  chiede  lor  possa 
Ed,  a  lor,  disdegnosa,  torce  il  muso" 

at  the  end  of  the  valley. 

Climbing  above  that  sacred  source  to  the  summit  of 
Falterona  itself,  you  may  see,  if  the  dawn  be  clear,  the 
Tyrrhene  sea  and  the  Adriatic,  the  one  but  a  tremor  of  light 
far  and  far  away,  the  other  a  sheet  of  silver  beyond  the 
famous  cities  of  Romagna.  It  is  from  this  summit  that  your 
way  through  Casentino  should  begin. 

It  was  there  I  waited  the  dawn.  For  long  in  the  soft 
darkness  and  silence  I  had  watched  the  mountains  sleeping 
under  the  few  summer  stars.  Suddenly  the  earth  seemed  to 
stir  in  her  sleep,  in  every  valley  the  dew  was  falling,  in  all  the 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO    369 

forests  there  was  a  rumour,  and  among  the  rocks  where  I  lay 
I  caught  a  flutter  of  wings.  The  east  grew  rosy ;  out  of  the 
mysterious  sea  rose  a  golden  ghost  hidden  in  glory,  till 
suddenly  across  the  world  a  sunbeam  fell.  It  touched  the 
mountains  one  by  one ;  higher  and  higher  crept  the  tremulous 
joy  of  light,  confident  and  ever  more  confident,  opening  like 
a  flower,  filling  the  world  with  gladness  and  light.  It  was 
the  dawn :  out  of  the  east  once  more  had  crept  the  beauty  of 
the  world. 

Then  in  that  clear  and  joyful  hour  God  spread  out  all  the 
breadth  of  Italy  before  me :  the  plains,  the  valleys,  and  the 
mountains.  Far  and  far  away,  shining  in  the  sun,  Ravenna 
lay,  and  lean  Rimini  and  bartered  Pesaro.  There,  the 
mountains  rose  over  Siena,  in  that  valley  Gubbio  slept,  on 
that  hill  stood  S.  Marino,  and  there,  like  a  golden  angel 
bearing  the  Annunciation  of  Day,  S.  Leo  folded  her  wings  on 
her  mountain.  Southward,  Arezzo  smiled  like  a  flower,  Monte 
Amiata  was  already  glorious  ;  northward  lay  a  sea  of  mountains, 
named  and  nameless,  restless  with  light,  about  to  break  in  the 
sun.  While  to  the  west  Florence  lay  sleeping  yet,  in  the 
cusp  of  her  hills,  her  towers,  her  domes,  perfect  and  fresh  in 
the  purity  of  dawn  that  had  renewed  her  beauty. 

It  was  an  altogether  different  impression,  an  impression 
of  sadness,  of  some  tragic  thing,  that  I  received  when  at 
evening  I  stood  above  the  Castle  of  Porciano  on  a  hill  a  little 
way  off,  and  looked  down  the  valley.  It  was  not  any  joyful 
thing  that  I  saw,  splendid  though  it  was,  but  the  ruined 
castles,  blind  and  broken,  of  the  Counts  Guidi :  Porciano 
itself,  like  a  broken,  jagged  menace,  rises  across  Arno,  heard 
but  not  seen ;  farther,  on  the  crest  a  blue  hill,  round  which 
evening  gathers,  out  of  the  woods  rises  the  great  ruin  of 
Romena  like  a  broken  oath  ;  while  farther  still,  far  away  on 
its  hill  in  a  fold  of  the  valley,  Poppi  thrusts  its  fierce  tower 
into  the  sky,  a  cruel  boast  that  came  to  nothing.  They  are 
but  the  ghosts  of  a  forgotten  barbarism  these  gaunt  towers  of 
war ;  they  are  nothing  now,  less  than  nothing,  unreconciled 
though  they  be  with  the  hills ;  they  have  been  crumbling  for 
24 


370    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

hundreds  of  years :  one  day  the  last  stone  will  fall.  For 
around  them  is  life ;  the  children  of  Stia,  laughing  about  the 
fountain,  will  never  know  that  their  ancestors  went  in  fear  of 
some  barbarian  who  held  Porciano  by  murder  and  took  toll 
of  the  weak.  These  shepherd  girls,  these  contadini  and 
their  wives  and  children,  they  have  outlived  the  Conti 
Guidi,  they  have  outlasted  the  greatest  of  the  lords ;  like  the 
flowers,  they  run  among  the  stones  without  a  thought  of  that 
brutal  greatness  that  would  have  enslaved  them  if  it  could. 
Not  by  violence  have  they  conquered,  but  by  love ;  not  by 
death,  but  by  life.  It  is  just  this  which  I  see  round  every 
ruin  in  the  Casentino.  Force,  brute  force,  is  the  only  futile 
thing  in  the  world.  Why  has  La  Verna  remained  when 
Romena  is  swept  away,  that  strong  place,  when  Porciano  is 
a  ruin,  when  the  castle  of  Poppi  is  brought  low,  but  that 
life  which  is  love  has  beaten  hate,  and  that  a  kiss  is  more 
terrible  than  a  thousand  blows. 

Yes,  as  one  wanders  about  these  hills  where  life  itself  is  so 
hard  a  master,  it  is  just  that  which  one  understands  in  almost 
every  village.  You  go  to  S.  Maria  delle  Grazie — Vallom- 
brosella,  they  call  it,  since  it  was  a  daughter  of  the  monastery 
of  Vallombrosa — and  there  in  that  beautiful  fifteenth-century 
church  you  still  find  the  simple  things  of  life,  of  love ;  work  of 
the  Robbia;  pictures,  too,  cheerful  flowerlike  things,  with 
Madonna  like  a  rose  in  the  midst.  Well,  not  far  away  across 
Amo,  where  he  is  little,  the  ruins  of  Castel  Castagnajo  and 
of  Campo  Lombardo  are  huddled,  though  Vallucciole,  that 
tiny  village,  is  laughing  with  children.  It  is  the  same  at 
Romena,  where  the  church  still  lives,  though  the  castle  is 
ruined.  You  pass  to  Pratovecchio ;  it  is  the  same  story,  ruins 
of  the  Guidi  towers,  walls,  fortifications  ;  but  in  the  convent 
church  of  the  Dominican  sisters  they  still  sing  Magnificat 

Deposuit  fKJtentes  de  sede  :  et  exaltavit  humiles. 

So  on  the  road  to  Poppi  you  come  to  Campaldino,  where 
Dante  fought,  where  Corso  Donati  saved  the  day  where 
Buonconte  fell,  and  died  with  the  fog  in  his  throat  in  the 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     371 

still  morning  air  after  the  battle.  Well,  that  famous  field  is 
now  a  vineyard ;  you  may  see  the  girls  gathering  the  grapes 
there  any  morning  in  early  October.  Where  the  horses  of  the 
Aretines  thundered  away,  the  great  patient  oxen  draw  the 
plough ;  or  a  man  walks,  singing  beside  his  wife,  her  first-born 
in  her  arms.  It  is  the  victory  of  the  meek  ;  here,  at  least,  they 
have  inherited  the  earth.  And  Certomondo,  as  of  old,  sings  of 
our  sister  the  earth.  Poppi  again — ah,  but  that  fierce  old 
place,  how  splendid  it  is,  it  and  its  daughter  !  but  she  stood  for 
liberty,  or  something  like  it  at  least.  Like  all  the  rest  of  these 
Guidi  strongholds,  the  Rocca  of  Poppi  stands  on  a  hill ;  it  can 
be  seen  for  miles  up  and  down  the  valley :  and  indeed  the 
whole  town  is  like  a  fortress  on  a  hill,  subject  only  to  the 
ever-changing  sky,  the  great  tide  of  light  ebbing  and  flowing  in 
the  valley  between  the  mountains.  Poppi  is  the  greatest  of 
the  Guidi  fortresses ;  built  by  Arnolfo,  it  has  much  of  the 
nobility  of  its  daughter  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  of  Florence.  Of 
all  these  castles  it  is  the  only  one  that  is  not  a  ruin.  It  is 
true  it  has  been  restored,  but  you  may  still  find  frescoes 
on  its  walls  in  the  chapel  and  in  the  great  hall,  work,  it  is  said, 
of  Jacopo  da  Casentino :  and  then  it  has  one  of  the  loveliest 
courtyards  in  Italy. 

It  is  from  Poppi  one  may  go  very  easily  in  a  summer  day 
to  Camaldoli,  some  eight  miles  or  so  to  the  north-west,  where 
the  valley  comes  up  in  a  long  arm  into  the  mountains.  On 
that  lovely  road  you  pass  many  an  old  ruin  of  the  Guidi 
before  you  come  at  last  to  that  monastery  of  the  Camaldolese 
Order  '*  so  beloved  of  Dante,"  which  was  confiscated  with  the 
rest  in  1866.  The  monks  now  hire  their  own  house  from 
the  Government,  which  has  let  out  their  hospice  for  an  hotel. 
About  an  hour  above  the  monastery,  among  the  pine  trees,  is 
the  Sacro  Eremo,  the  Holy  Hermitage,  where  in  some  twenty 
separate  cells  the  Hermits  of  Camaldoli  live ;  for,  as  their 
arms  go  to  show,  the  Order  is  divided  into  two  parts,  consist- 
ing of  monks  who  live  in  community,  and  hermits  who  live 
alone. 

S.  Romuald,  the  founder  of  the  Order,  of  the  family  of  the 


372    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Dukes  of  Ravenna  called  Honesti,  was  bom  in  that  city  in  956. 
He  seems  to  have  grown  up  amid  a  certain  splendour,  and  to 
have  been  caught  by  it,  but  by  a  love  of  nature  no  less ;  so 
that  often  when  he  was  hunting,  and  found  a  beautiful  or 
lonely  place  in  the  woods  away  from  his  companions,  he 
would  almost  cry  out,  "  How  happy  were  the  old  hermits,  who 
lived  always  in  such  places  ! "  The  romance  of  just  that :  it 
seems  to  have  struck  him  from  the  first.  Not  long  after,  when 
he  was  but  twenty  years  old,  his  father,  deciding  a  dispute  with  a 
relation  by  fighting,  fell,  and  Romuald,  who  had  been  compelled 
to  witness  this  dreadful  scene,  was  so  overwhelmed  by  the 
result  that  he  retired  for  a  time  to  the  Benedictine  Monastery 
at  Classis,  not  far  from  Ravenna.  He  never  came  out.  After 
some  difficulties  had  been  disposed  of,  for  he  was  his  father's 
heir,  he  spent  seven  years  in  that  monastery ;  but  his  sincerity 
does  not  appear  to  have  pleased  certain  of  the  fathers,  so  that 
we  find  him  at  last  obliged  to  retire  to  Venice,  where,  in  fulfil- 
ment of  his  earliest  wishes,  he  placed  himself  under  the 
guidance  of  Marinus,  a  hermit.  After  many  years,  in  which  he 
seems  to  have  gone  to  Spain,  he  returned  at  last,  and  took  up 
his  hermit  life  in  a  marsh  near  Classis,  where  the  monks  of 
his  old  monastery  sought  him,  and  with  the  help  of  Otho  iii 
made  him  their  Abbot.  This  office,  however,  he  did  not  long 
retain,  for  he  found  it  useless  to  try  to  reform  them.  He 
seems  to  have  wandered  about,  famous  all  over  Italy,  founding 
many  houses,  but  the  most  famous  of  all  is  this  house  of 
Camaldoli,  which  he  founded  in  1009.  The  land  was  given 
him  by  a  certain  Conte  Maldolo,  it  is  said,  an  Aretine,  by 
whose  name  the  place  was  ever  after  known.  Campus  Maldoli ; 
while  another  gift.  Campus  Arrabile,  the  gift  of  the  same  man, 
is  that  place  where  the  Hermitage  stands.  There,  in  Camal- 
doli, Romuald  built  a  monastery,  •'  and  by  several  observances 
he  added  to  St.  Benedict's  rule,  gave  birth  to  a  new  Order,  in 
which  he  united  the  cenobite  and  eremetical  life."  It  is  said 
that  it  was  after  a  vision,  in  which  he  saw  his  monks  mounting 
up  into  heaven  dressed  in  white,  that  he  changed  their  habit 
from  black  to  white — the  habit  they  still  wear. 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     373 

Whether  it  be  that  the  hills  and  valley  are  indeed  more 
lovely  here  than  anywhere  else  in  Casentino,  and  that  the 
monks  and  the  hermits  lure  some  indefinable  sweet  charm  to 
the  place,  I  know  not ;  yet  I  know  that  I,  who  came  for  a  day, 
stayed  a  month,  returning  here  again  and  again  from  less 
lovely,  less  quiet  places.  Camaldoli  is  one  of  the  loveliest 
places  in  Tuscany  in  which  to  spend  a  summer.  Here  are 
mountains,  woods,  streams,  valleys,  a  monastery,  and  a 
hermitage ;  to  desire  more  might  seem  churlish,  to  be  content 
with  less  when  these  may  be  had  in  quiet,  stupid. 

IV 

BiBBIENA,   La  Verna 

Some  eight  miles  away  down  the  valley,  enclosed  above  a 
coil  of  Amo,  stands  Bibbiena,  just  a  little  Tuscan  hill  city 
with  a  windy  towered  Piazza  in  which  a  great  fountain  plays, 
and  all  about  the  tall  cypresses  tower  in  the  sun  among  the 
vineyards  and  the  corn.  Here  Cardinal  Bibbiena,  the  greatest 
ornament  of  the  court  of  Urbino,  was  born,  of  no  famous 
family,  but  of  the  Divizi.  It  is  not,  however,  any  memory  of  so 
famous  and  splendid  a  person  that  haunts  you  in  these  stony 
streets,  but  the  remembrance  rather  of  a  greater  if  humbler 
humanist,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi.  You  may  see  work  of  the  Robbia 
in  the  Franciscan  church  of  S.  Lorenzo  in  the  little  city,  but 
it  is  La  Verna  which  to-day  overshadows  Bibbiena,  La  Verna 
where  St.  Francis  nearly  seven  hundred  years  ago  received  the 
Stigmata  from  Our  Lord,  and  whence  he  was  carried  down  to 
Assisi  to  die.  The  way  thither  is  difficult  but  beautiful :  you 
climb  quite  into  the  mountains,  and  there  in  a  lonely  and 
stony  place  rises  the  strange  rock,  set  with  cypress  and  with 
fir,  backed  by  marvellous  great  hills. 

"  Mons  in  quo  beneplacitum  est  Deo  hahitare  in  eo." 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  14th  September  1224,  in  the 
Feast  of  the  Exaltation  of  the  Holy  Cross,  that  Francesco 


374    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Bemadone  received  the  Stigmata  of  Christ's  passion 
while  keeping  the  Lent  of  St.  Michael  Archangel  on  this 
strange  and  beautiful  mountain.  "  Ye  must  needs  know," 
says  the  author  of  the  Fioretti,  "  that  St.  Francis,  being 
forty  and  three  years  of  age  in  the  year  1224,  being 
inspired  of  God,  set  out  from  the  valley  of  Spoleto  for 
to  go  into  Romagna  with  brother  Leo  his  companion :  and 
as  they  went  they  passed  by  the  foot  of  the  castle  of  Monte- 
feltro;  in  the  which  castle  there  was  at  that  time  a  great 
company  of  gentlefolk.  .  .  .  Among  them  a  wealthy  gentleman 
of  Tuscany,  by  name  Orlando  da  Chiusi  of  Casentino,  who 
by  reason  of  the  marvellous  things  which  he  had  heard  of  St. 
Francis,  bore  him  great  devotion  and  felt  an  exceeding  strong 
desire  to  see  him  and  to  hear  him  preach.  Coming  to  the 
castle  St.  Francis  entered  in  and  came  to  the  courtyard,  where 
all  that  great  company  of  gentlefolk  was  gathered  together, 
and  in  fervour  of  spirit  stood  up  upon  a  parapet  and  began  to 
preach.  .  .  .  And  Orlando,  touched  in  the  heart  by  God  through 
the  marvellous  preaching  of  St.  Francis  .  .  .  drew  him  aside 
and  said,  "  O  Father,  I  would  converse  with  thee  touching  the 
salvation  of  my  soul."  Replied  St.  Francis  :  "  It  pleaseth  me 
right  well ;  but  go  this  morning  and  do  honour  to  thy  friends 
who  have  called  thee  to  the  feast,  and  dine  with  them,  and 
after  we  will  speak  together  as  much  as  thou  wilt."  So 
Orlando  got  him  to  the  dinner ;  and  after  he  returned  to  St 
Francis  and  ...  set  him  forth  fully  the  state  of  his  souL 
And  at  the  end  this  Orlando  said  to  St.  Francis,  "  I  have  in 
Tuscany  a  mountain  most  proper  for  devotion,  the  which  is 
called  the  Mount  La  Verna,  and  is  very  lonely  and  right  well 
fitted  for  whoso  may  wish  to  do  penance  in  a  place  remote 
from  man,  or  whoso  may  desire  to  live  a  solitary  life ;  if  it 
should  please  thee,  right  willingly  would  I  give  it  to  thee  and 
thy  companions  for  the  salvation  of  my  soul."  St.  Francis 
hearing  this  liberal  offer  of  the  thing  that  he  so  much  desired, 
rejoiced  with  exceeding  great  joy ;  and  praising  and  giving 
thanks  first  to  God  and  then  to  Orlando,  he  spake  thus : 
•'  Orlando,  when  you  have  returned  to  your  house,  I  will  send 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     375 

you  certain  of  my  companions,  and  you  shall  show  them  that 
mountain  ;  and  if  it  shall  seem  to  them  well  fitted  for  prayer 
and  penitence,  I  accept  your  loving  offer  even  now."  So 
Orlando  returned  to  Chiusi,  the  which  was  but  a  mile  distant 
from  La  Verna. 

"Whenas  St.  Francis  had  returned  to  St.  Mary  of  the 
Angels,  he  sent  one  of  his  companions  to  the  said  Orlando 
.  .  .  who,  desiring  to  show  them  the  Mount  of  La  Verna, 
sent  with  them  full  fifty  men-at-arms  to  defend  them  from  the 
wild  beasts  of  the  forest ;  and  thus  accompanied,  these  brothers 
climbed  up  the  mountain  and  searched  diligently,  and  at  last 
they  came  to  a  part  of  the  mountain  that  was  well  fitted  for 
devotion  and  contemplation,  for  in  that  part  there  was  some 
level  ground,  and  this  place  they  chose  out  for  them  and 
for  St  Francis  to  dwell  therein ;  and  with  the  help  of  the 
men-at-arms  that  bore  them  company,  they  made  a  little  cell 
of  branches  of  trees ;  and  so  they  accepted,  in  the  name  of 
God,  and  took  possession  of,  the  Mount  of  La  Verna,  and  of 
the  dwelling-place  of  the  brothers  on  the  mountain,  and 
departed  and  returned  to  St.  Francis.  And  when  they  were 
come  unto  him,  they  told  him  how,  and  in  what  manner,  they 
had  taken  a  place  on  the  mountain  .  .  .  and,  hearing  these 
tidings,  St.  Francis  was  right  glad,  and  praising  and  giving 
thanks  to  God,  he  spake  to  these  brothers  with  joyful  counten- 
ance, and  said,  *  My  sons,  our  forty  days'  fast  of  St.  Michael 
the  Archangel  draweth  near :  I  firmly  believe  that  it  is  the 
will  of  God  that  we  keep  this  fast  on  the  Mount  of  Alvernia, 
which,  by  divine  decree,  hath  been  made  ready  for  us  to  the 
end,  that  to  the  honour  and  glory  of  God,  and  of  His  mother, 
the  glorious  Virgin  Mary,  and  of  the  holy  Angels,  we  may, 
through  penance,  merit  at  the  hands  of  Christ  the  consolation 
of  consecrating  this  blessed  mountain.'  Thus  saying,  St, 
Francis  took  with  him  Brother  Masseo  da  Marignano  of 
Assisi  .  .  .  and  Brother  Angelo  Tancredi  da  Rieti,  the  which 
was  a  man  of  very  gentle  birth,  and  in  the  world  had  been  a 
knight ;  and  Brother  Leo,  a  man  of  exceeding  great  simplicity 
and  purity,  for  the  which  cause  St.  Francis  loved  him  much. 


376    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

So  they  set  out.  'And  on  the  first  night  they  came  to  a 
house  of  the  brothers,  and  lodged  there.  On  the  second 
night,  by  reason  of  the  bad  weather,  and  because  they  were 
tired,  not  being  able  to  reach  any  house  of  the  brothers,  or 
any  walled  town  or  village,  when  the  night  overtook  them  and 
bad  weather,  they  took  refuge  in  a  deserted  and  dismantled 
church,  and  there  laid  them  down  to  rest'  But  St.  Francis 
spent  the  night  in  prayer.  '  And  in  the  morning  his  com- 
panions, being  aware  that,  through  the  fatigues  of  the  night, 
which  he  had  passed  without  sleep,  St.  Francis  was  much 
weakened  in  body  and  could  but  ill  go  on  his  way  afoot,  went 
to  a  poor  peasant  of  these  parts,  and  begged  him,  for  the  love 
of  God,  to  lend  his  ass  for  Brother  Francis,  their  Father,  that 
could  not  go  afoot.  Hearing  them  make  mention  of  Brother 
Francis,  he  asked  them  :  "  Are  ye  of  the  brethren  of  the  brother 
of  Assisi,  of  whom  so  much  good  is  spoken  ?  "  The  brothers 
answered  "  Yes,"  and  that  in  very  truth  it  was  for  him  that  they 
asked  for  the  sumpter  beast.  Then  the  good  man,  with  great 
diligence  and  devotion,  made  ready  the  ass  and  brought  it  to 
St  Francis,  and  with  great  reverence  let  him  mount  thereon, 
and  they  went  on  their  way,  and  he  with  them  behind  his  ass. 
And  when  they  had  gone  on  a  little  way,  the  peasant  said  to 
St.  Francis,  "Tell  me,  art  thou  Brother  Francis  of  Assisi?" 
Replied  St.  Francis,  "Yes."  "Try,  then,"  said  the  peasant, 
*'  to  be  as  good  as  thou  art  by  all  folk  held  to  be,  seeing  that 
many  have  great  faith  in  thee ;  and  therefore  I  admonish 
thee,  that  in  thee  there  be  naught  save  what  men  hope  to  find 
therein." '  Hearing  these  words,  St.  Francis  thought  no  scorn 
to  be  admonished  by  a  peasant,  and  said  not  within  himself, 
•  What  beast  is  this  doth  admonish  me  ? '  as  many  would  say 
nowadays  that  wear  the  habit,  but  straightway  threw  himself 
from  off  the  ass  upon  the  ground,  and  kneeled  down  before 
him  and  kissed  his  feet,  and  then  humbly  thanked  him  for  that 
he  had  deigned  thus  lovingly  to  admonish  him.  Then  the 
peasant,  together  with  the  companions  of  St.  Francis,  with 
great  devotion  lifted  him  from  the  ground  and  set  him  on  the 
ass  again,  and  they  went  on  their  way.  ...  As  they  drew 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     377 

near  to  the  foot  of  the  rock  of  Alvemia  itself,  it  pleased  St 
Francis  to  rest  a  little  under  the  oak  that  was  by  the  way,  and 
is  there  to  this  day  ;  and  as  he  stood  under  it,  St.  Francis 
began  to  take  note  of  the  situation  of  the  place  and  the 
country  around.  And  as  he  was  thus  gazing,  lo !  there  came 
a  great  multitude  of  birds  from  divers  parts,  the  which,  with 
singing  and  flapping  of  their  wings,  all  showed  joy  and  glad- 
ness exceeding  great,  and  came  about  St.  Francis  in  such 
fashion,  some  settled  on  his  head,  some  on  his  shoulders,  and 
some  on  his  arms,  some  in  his  lap  and  some  round  his  feet. 
When  his  companions  and  the  peasant  marvelled,  beholding 
this,  St.  Francis,  all  joyful  in  spirit,  spake  thus  unto  them  :  •  I 
believe,  brethren  most  dear,  that  it  is  pleasing  unto  Our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  that  we  should  dwell  in  this  lonely  mountain, 
seeing  that  our  little  sisters  and  brothers,  the  birds,  show  such 
joy  at  our  coming.'  So  they  went  on  their  way  and  came  to 
the  place  the  companions  had  first  chosen." 

It  is  not  in  any  other  words  than  those  of  the  writer  of  the 
Fioretti  that  we  should  care  to  read  of  that  journey. 

"Arrived  there  not  long  after,  Orlando  and  his  company 
came  to  visit  PVancis,  bringing  with  them  bread  and  vNine 
and  other  victuals ;  and  St.  Francis  met  him  gladly  and  gave 
him  thanks  for  the  holy  mountain.  Then  Orlando  built  a 
little  cell  there,  and  that  done,  'as  it  was  drawing  near  to 
evening  and  it  was  time  for  them  to  depart,  St.  Francis 
preached  unto  them  a  little  before  they  took  leave  of  him.' 
Ah,  what  would  we  not  give  just  for  a  moment  to  hear  his 
voice  in  that  place  to-day  ?  There,  in  this  very  spot,  angels 
visited  him,  which  said,  when  he,  thinking  upon  his  death, 
wondered  what  would  become  of  'Thy  poor  little  family' 
after  his  death,  '  I  tell  thee,  in  the  name  of  God,  that  the 
profession  of  the  Order  will  never  fail  until  the  Day  of 
Judgment,  and  there  will  be  no  sinner  so  great  as  not  to  find 
mercy  with  God  if,  with  his  whole  heart,  he  love  thine  Order.' 

"Thereafter,  as  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption  of  Our  Lady 
drew  near,  St.  Francis  sought  how  he  might  find  a  place  more 
solitary  and  secret,  wherein  he  might  the  more  solitary  keep 


378    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  forty  days'  fast  of  St.  Michael  the  Archangel,  which  be- 
ginneth  with  the  said  Feast  of  the  Assumption.  .  .  .  And 
as  they  searched,  they  found,  on  the  side  of  the  mountain 
that  looks  towards  the  south,  a  lonely  place,  and  very  proper 
for  his  purpose;  but  they  could  not  win  there  because  in 
front  there  was  a  horrid  and  fearful  cleft  in  a  huge  rock ; 
wherefore  with  great  pains  they  laid  a  piece  of  wood  over  it 
as  a  bridge,  and  got  across  to  the  other  side.  Then  St 
Francis  sent  for  the  other  brothers  and  told  them  how  he  was 
minded  to  keep  the  forty  days'  fast  of  St.  Michael  in  that 
lonely  place ;  and  therefore  he  besought  them  to  make  him  a 
little  cell  there,  so  that  no  cry  of  his  could  be  heard  of  them. 
And  when  the  cell  was  made,  St.  Francis  said  to  them :  '  Go 
ye  to  your  own  place  and  leave  me  here  alone,  for,  with  the 
help  of  God,  I  am  minded  to  keep  the  fast  here  without 
disturbance  or  distraction,  and  therefore  let  none  of  you  come 
unto  me,  nor  suffer  any  lay  folk  to  come  to  me.  But  Brother 
Leo,  thou  alone  shall  come  to  me  once  a  day  with  a  little 
bread  and  water,  and  at  night  once  again  at  the  hour  of 
Matins ;  and  then  shalt  thou  come  to  me  in  silence,  and 
when  thou  art  at  the  bridgehead  thou  shalt  say :  "  Domine, 
labia  mea  operies,"  and  if  I  answer  thee,  cross  over  and  come 
to  the  cell,  and  we  will  say  Matins  together ;  and  if  I  answer 
thee  not,  then  depart  straightway.'  "  And  so  it  was.  But  there 
came  a  morning  when  St.  Francis  made  him  no  answer,  and, 
contrary  to  St.  Francis's  desire,  but  with  the  very  best  of  in- 
tentions, dear  little  brother  Leo  crossed  the  bridge  over  the 
chasm,  which  you  may  see  to  this  day,  and  entered  into 
St.  Francis's  cell.  There  he  found  him  in  ecstasy,  saying, 
•  Who  art  Thou,  O  most  sweet,  my  God  ?  What  am  I,  most 
vile  worm,  and  Thine  unprofitable  servant?'  Again  and 
again  brother  Leo  heard  him  repeat  these  words,  and  wonder- 
ing thereat,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  saw  there  among 
the  stars,  for  it  was  dark,  a  torch  of  flame  very  beautiful  and 
bright,  which,  coming  down  from  the  sky,  rested  on  St. 
Francis's  head.  So,  thinking  himself  unworthy  to  behold  so 
sweet  a  vision,  '  he  softly  turned  away  for  to  go  to  his  cell 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     379 

again.  And  as  he  was  going  softly,  deeming  himself  unseen, 
St,  Francis  was  aware  of  him  by  the  rustling  of  the  leaves 
under  his  feet.'  Surely,  even  to  the  most  doubtful,  that 
sound  of  the  rustling  leaves  must  bring  conviction.  Then  St. 
Francis  explains  to  brother  Leo  all  that  this  might  mean. 

"  And  as  he  thus  continued  a  long  time  in  prayer,  he  came 
to  know  that  God  would  hear  him,  and  that  so  far  as  was 
possible  for  the  mere  creature,  so  far  would  it  be  granted 
him  to  feel  the  things  aforesaid.  .  .  .  And  as  he  was  thus 
set  on  fire  in  his  contemplation  on  that  same  mom,  he  saw 
descend  from  heaven  a  Seraph  with  six  wings  resplendent 
and  aflame,  and  as  with  swift  flight  the  Seraph  drew  nigh 
unto  St.  Francis  so  that  he  could  discern  him,  he  clearly 
saw  that  he  bore  in  him  the  image  of  a  man  crucified ;  and 
his  wings  were  in  such  guise  displayed  that  two  wings  were 
spread  above  his  head,  and  two  were  spread  out  to  fly,  and 
other  two  covered  all  his  body.  Seeing  this,  St.  Francis 
was  sore  adread,  and  was  filled  at  once  with  joy  and  grief 
and  marvel.  He  felt  glad  at  the  gracious  look  of  Christ, 
who  appeared  to  him  so  lovingly,  and  gazed  on  him  so 
graciously ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  seeing  Him  crucified 
upon  the  cross,  he  felt  immeasurable  grief  for  pity's  sake. 
.  .  .  Then  the  whole  mount  of  Alvernia  appeared  as  though 
it  burned  with  bright  shining  flames  that  lit  up  all  the 
mountains  and  valleys  round  as  though  it  had  been  the  sun 
upon  the  earth ;  whereby  the  shepherds  that  were  keeping 
watch  in  these  parts,  seeing  the  mountains  aflame,  and  so 
great  a  light  around,  had  exceeding  great  fear,  according  as 
they  afterwards  told  unto  the  brothers,  declaring  that  this 
flame  rested  upon  the  mount  of  Alvernia  for  the  space  of 
an  hour  and  more.  In  like  manner  at  the  bright  shining  of 
this  light,  which  through  the  windows  lit  up  the  hostels  of 
the  country  round,  certain  muleteers  that  were  going  into 
Romagna  arose,  believing  that  the  day  had  dawned,  and 
saddled  and  laded  their  beasts ;  and  going  on  their  way, 
they  saw  the  said  light  die  out  and  the  material  sun  arise. 
In  the  seraphic  vision,  Christ,  the  which  apj)eared  to  him, 


380    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

spake  to  St.  Francis  certain  high  and  secret  things,  the  which 
St.  Francis  in  his  lifetime  desired  not  to  reveal  to  any  man ; 
but  after  his  life  was  done  he  did  reveal  them,  as  it  set  forth 
below ;  and  the  words  were  these :  '  Knowest  thou,'  said 
Christ,  'what  it  is  that  I  have  done  unto  thee?  I  have 
given  thee  the  Stigmata  that  are  the  signs  of  My  Passion, 
to  the  end  that  thou  mayest  be  My  standard-bearer.  And 
even  as  in  the  day  of  My  death  I  descended  into  hell  and 
brought  out  thence  all  souls  that  I  found  there  by  reason 
of  these  My  Stigmata :  even  so  do  I  grant  to  thee  that  every 
year  on  the  day  of  thy  death  thou  shalt  go  to  Purgatory,  and 
in  virtue  of  thy  Stigmata  shalt  bring  out  thence  all  the  souls 
of  thy  three  Orders, — to  wit.  Minors,  Sisters,  Continents, — 
and  likewise  others  that  shall  have  had  a  great  devotion  for 
thee,  and  shalt  lead  them  unto  the  glory  of  Paradise,  to  the 
end  that  thou  mayest  be  confirmed  to  Me  in  death  as  thou 
art  in  life.'  Then  this  marvellous  image  vanished  away, 
and  left  in  the  heart  of  St,  Francis  a  burning  ardour  and 
flame  of  love  divine,  and  in  his  flesh  a  marvellous  image  and 
copy  of  the  Passion  of  Christ.  For  straightway  in  the  hands 
and  feet  of  St.  Francis  began  to  appear  the  marks  of  the 
nails  in  such  wise  as  he  had  seen  them  in  the  body  of  Jesus 
Christ  the  crucified,  the  which  had  shown  Himself  to  him 
in  the  likeness  of  a  Seraph ;  and  thus  his  hands  and  feet 
appeared  to  be  pierced  through  the  middle  with  nails,  and 
the  heads  of  them  were  in  the  palms  of  his  hands  and  the 
soles  of  his  feet  outside  the  flesh,  and  their  points  came 
out  in  the  back  of  his  hands  and  of  his  feet,  so  that  they 
seemed  bent  back  and  rivetted  in  such  a  fashion  that 
under  the  bend  and  rivetting  which  all  stood  out  above 
the  flesh  might  easily  be  put  a  finger  of  the  hand  as  a 
ring ;  and  the  heads  of  the  nails  were  round  and  black. 
Likewise  in  the  right  side  appeared  the  image  of  a  wound 
made  by  a  lance,  unhealed,  and  red  and  bleeding,  the 
which  afterwards  oftentimes  dropped  blood  from  the  sacred 
breast  of  St.  Francis,  and  stained  with  blood  his  tunic  and 
his  hose.     Wherefore  his  companions,   before  they  knew  it 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO    381 

of  his  own  lips,  perceiving  nevertheless  that  he  uncovered 
not  his  hands  and  feet,  and  that  he  could  not  put  the  soles 
of  his  feet  to  the  ground  .  .  .  knew  of  a  surety  that  in  his 
hands  and  feet,  and  likewise  in  his  side,  he  bore  the  express 
image  and  similitude  of  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  crucified." 
On  the  day  after  the  feast  of  St.  Michael,  St.  Francis  left  La 
Verna  never  to  return. 

It  was  with  a  certain  hesitation  that  I  first  came  to  La 
Verna,  as  though  something  divine  that  was  hidden  in  the 
life  of  the  Apostle  of  Humanity  might  be  lost  for  me  in  the 
mere  realism  of  his  sacred  places.  But  it  was  not  so.  In 
Italy,  it  might  seem  even  to-day,  St.  Francis  is  not  a  stranger, 
and,  in  fact,  I  had  got  no  farther  than  the  Cappella  degli 
Uccelli  before  I  seemed  to  understand  everything,  and  in  a 
place  so  lonely  as  this  to  have  found  again,  yes,  that  Jesus 
whom  I  had  lost  in  the  city. 

On  a  high  precipitous  rock  on  the  top  of  the  mountain 
you  come  to  the  convent  itself,  through  a  great  court,  il 
Quadrante,  under  a  low  gateway.  The  buildings  are  of  the 
end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  simple,  and  with  a  certain 
country  beauty  about  them,  strong  and  engaging.  In  the 
dim  corridors  the  friars  pass  you  on  their  way  to  church 
at  all  hours  of  the  day,  smiling  faintly  at  you,  whom  they,  in 
their  simple  way,  receive  without  question  as  a  friend.  It  is 
for  St.  Francis  you  have  come  :  it  is  enough.  You  pass  into 
the  Cappella  della  Maddalena,  where  the  angel  appeared  to 
S.  Francesco  promising  such  great  things,  and  it  is  with  a 
certain  confidence  you  remind  yourself,  yes,  it  is  true,  the 
Order  still  lives,  here  men  still  speak  S.  Francesco's  name 
and  pray  to  God.  And  there,  as  it  is  said,  Jesus  Himself 
spoke  with  him,  and  he  wrote  the  blessing  for  Frate  Leone. 
Then  you  enter  the  Chiesina,  the  first  little  church  of  the 
Mountain  that  St.  Francis  may  have  built  with  his  own  hands, 
and  that  S.  Bonaventura  certainly  enlarged ;  and  thus  into 
the  great  Church  of  S.  Maria  Assunta,  built  in  1348  by  the 
Conte    di    Pietramala,    with    its    beautiful    della    Robbias. 


382    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

Coming  out  again,  you  pass  along  the  covered  way  into  the 
Cappella  della  Stigmata,  built  in  1263  by  the  Conte  Simone 
da  BattifoUe,  where  behind  the  high  altar  is  the  great  Cruci- 
fixion by  one  of  the  Robbia.  Next  to  this  chapel  is  the 
Cappella  della  Croce,  where  of  old  the  cell  stood  in  which 
St.  Francis  kept  the  Lent  of  St.  Michael.  Close  by  are  the 
Oratories  of  S.  Antonio  di  Padua  and  S.  Bonaventura,  where 
they  prayed  and  worked.  Below  the  Chapel  of  the  Stigmata 
is  the  Sasso  Spicco,  whence  the  devil  hurled  one  of  the 
brethren.  For  during  that  Lent,  "  Francis  leaving  his  cell 
one  day  in  fervour  of  spirit,  and  going  aside  a  little  to  pray 
in  a  hollow  of  the  rock,  from  which  down  to  the  ground  is 
an  exceeding  deep  descent  and  a  horrible  and  fearful  preci- 
pice, suddenly  the  devil  came  in  terrible  shape,  with  a 
tempest  and  exceeding  loud  roar,  and  struck  at  him  for  to 
push  him  down  thence.  St.  Francis,  not  having  where  to 
flee,  and  not  being  able  to  endure  the  grim  aspect  of  the 
demon,  he  turned  him  quickly  with  hands  and  face  and  all 
his  body  pressed  to  the  rock,  commending  himself  to  God 
and  groping  with  his  hands,  if  perchance  he  might  find  aught 
to  cling  to.  But  as  it  pleased  God,  who  suffereth  not  His 
servants  to  be  tempted  above  that  they  are  able  to  bear, 
suddenly  by  a  miracle  the  rock  to  which  he  clung  hollowed 
itself  out  in  fashion  as  the  shape  of  his  body.  .  .  .  But 
that  which  the  demon  could  not  do  then  unto  St.  Francis  .  .  . 
he  did  a  good  while  after  the  death  of  St.  Francis  unto  one 
of  his  dear  and  pious  brothers,  who  was  setting  in  order 
some  pieces  of  wood  in  the  self-same  place,  to  the  end  that 
it  might  be  possible  to  cross  there  without  peril,  out  of 
devotion  to  St.  Francis  and  the  miracle  that  was  wrought 
there.  On  a  day  the  demon  pushed  him,  while  he  had  on 
his  head  a  great  log  that  he  wished  to  set  there,  and  made 
him  fall  down  thence  with  the  log  upon  his  head.  But  God, 
that  had  preserved  and  delivered  St.  Francis  from  falling, 
through  his  merits  delivered  and  preserved  his  pious  brother 
from  the  peril  of  his  fall ;  for  the  brother,  as  he  fell,  with 
exceeding  great  devotion  commanded  himself  in  a  loud  voice 


VALLOMBROSA  AND  THE  CASENTINO     383 

to  St.  Francis,  and  straightway  he  appeared  unto  him,  and, 
catching  him,  set  him  down  upon  the  rocks  without  suffering 
him  to  feel  a  shock  or  any  hurt."  Can  it  have  been  this 
"pious  brother"  who  wrote  the  FioretW}  Everywhere  you 
go  in  La  Verna  you  feel  that  S.  Francesco  has  been  before 
you  ;  and  where  there  is  no  tradition  to  help  you,  surely  you  will 
make  one  for  yourself.  Can  he  who  loved  everything  that  had 
life  have  failed  to  love,  too,  that  world  he  saw  from  La  Penna — 

"  Nel  crudo  sasso,  intra  Tevere  ed  Arno  " 

— Casentino  and  its  woods  and  streams,  Val  d'Arno,  Val  di 
Tevere,  the  hills  of  Perugia,  the  valleys  of  Umbria,  the  lean, 
wolfish  country  of  the  Marche,  the  rugged  mountains  of 
Romagna.  There,  on  the  summit  of  La  Verna,  you  look 
down  on  the  broken  fortresses  of  countless  wars,  the  passes 
through  which  army  after  army,  company  upon  company,  has 
marched  to  victory  or  fled  in  defeat ;  every  hill-top  seems 
to  bear  some  ruined  Rocca,  every  valley  to  be  a  forgotten 
battlefield,  every  stream  has  run  red  with  blood.  All  is 
forgotten,  all  is  over,  all  is  done  with.  The  victories  led  to 
nothing ;  the  defeats  are  out  of  mind.  In  the  midst  of  the 
battle  the  peasant  went  on  ploughing  his  field ;  somewhere 
not  far  away  the  girls  gathered  the  grapes.  All  this  violence 
was  of  no  account ;  it  achieved  nothing,  and  every  victory 
was  but  the  tombstone  of  an  idea.  Here,  on  La  Verna,  is 
the  only  fortress  that  is  yet  living  in  all  Tuscany,  of  that 
time  so  long  ago.  It  is  a  fortress  of  love.  The  man 
who  built  it  had  flung  away  his  dagger,  and  already  his 
sword  rusted  in  its  scabbard  in  that  little  house  in  Assisi ; 
he  conquered  the  world  by  love.  His  was  the  irresistible 
and  lovely  force,  the  immortal,  indestructible  confidence  of 
the  Idea,  the  Idea  which  cannot  die.  If  he  prayed  in  Latin, 
he  wrote  the  first  verses  of  Italian  poetry.  Out  of  his  tomb 
grew  the  rose  of  the  Renaissance,  and  filled  the  world  with 
its  sweetness.  He  was  the  son  of  a  burgess  in  Assisi,  and 
is  now  the  greatest  saint  in  our  heaven.  With  the  sun  he 
loved  his  name  has  shone  round  the  world,  and  there  is  no 


384    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

land  so  far  off  that  it  has  not  heard  it.  And  we,  who  look 
upon  the  ruined  castles  of  the  Conti  Guidi,  are  here  because 
of  him,  and  speak  with  his  brothers  as  we  gaze. 


A    RiVEDERLA 

Slowly,  as  the  summer  waned,  I  made  my  way  up  through 
the  Casentino,  once  more  past  the  strongholds  and  the  little 
towns.  Now  and  then  on  my  way  I  met  the  herds,  already 
setting  out  for  the  winter  pastures  of  Maremma.  The  grapes 
were  plucking  or  gathered  in,  and  everywhere  there  were 
songs. 

"Come  volete  faccia  che  non  pianga, 
Sapendo  che  da  voi  devo  partire? 
E  tu,  bello,  in  Maremma,  e  io  'n  montagna ! 
Chesta  partenza  mi  fari  morire." 

So  I  came  once  more  over  Falterona,  down  to  Castagno, 
that  mountain  village  where  Andrea  del  Castagno,  the 
follower  of  Masaccio,  was  bom,  to  S.  Godenzo,  between  two 
streams,  where  Dante  knew  the  castle  of  the  Guidi,  and 
where  Conte  Tegrimo  of  Porciano  received  Henry  vii. 
Here,  at  last,  I  was  in  the  very  footsteps  of  Dante;  for  in 
the  church  there,  in  the  choir  set  high  above  the  old  crypt, 
he  signed  the  deed  of  alliance  between  the  Guidi  and  the 
Ubaldini  on  8th  June  1302,  "Actum  in  choro  Sancti 
Gaudentii  de  pede  Alpium." 

Nothing  remains  of  the  place  as  it  was  in  those  days,  I 
suppose,  save  the  church,  and  that  has  been  for  the  most 
part  rebuilt ;  but  the  choir  stands,  so  that  we  may  say  here, 
on  8th  June  1302,  Dante  took  quill  and  signed  and  spoke 
with  his  fellow-exiles. 

Thence  I  followed  the  way  to  Dicomano  by  Sieve,  at  the 
foot  of  the  Consuma,  and  then  up  stream  to  Borgo  S,  Lorenzo, 
the  capital  of  the  Mugello,  and  so  by  the  winding  road  above 
the  valley  under  the  hills  to  Fiesole,  to  Florence,  wrapped  in 
rain,  through  which  an  evening  sun  was  breaking. 


XXVII 
PRATO 

PRATO  is  like  a  flower  that  has  fallen  by  the  wayside 
that  has  faded  in  the  dust  of  the  way.  She  is  a  little 
rosy  city,  scarcely  more  than  a  castello,  full  of  ruined  churches ; 
and  in  the  churches  are  ruined  frescoes,  ruined  statues, 
broken  pillars,  spoiled  altars.  You  pass  from  one  church  to 
another — from  S.  Francesco,  with  its  fagade  of  green  and 
white,  its  pleasant  cloister  and  old  frescoes,  to  La  Madonna 
delle  Carceri,  to  S.  Niccolo  da  Tolentino,  to  S.  Domenico — 
and  you  ask  yourself,  as  you  pass  from  one  to  another, 
what  you  have  come  to  see :  only  this  flower  fallen  by  the 
wayside. 

But  in  truth  Prato  is  the  child  of  Florence,  a  rosy  child 
among  the  flowers — in  the  country,  too,  as  children  should 
be.  Her  churches  are  small.  What  could  be  more  like  a 
child's  dream  of  a  church  than  La  Madonna  delle  Carceri  ? 
And  the  Palazzo  Pretorio-^it  is  a  toy  palace  wonderfully 
carved  and  contrived,  a  toy  that  has  been  thrown  aside. 
In  the  Palazzo  Comunalc  the  little  daughter  of  Florence 
has  gathered  all  her  broken  treasures :  here  a  discarded 
Madonna,  there  a  Bambino  long  since  forgotten ;  flowers, 
too,  flowers  of  the  wayside,  faded  now,  such  as  a  little 
country  girl  will  gather  and  toss  into  your  vettura  at  any 
village  corner  in  Tuscany  ;  a  terracotta  of  Luca  della  Robbia, 
and  that  would  be  a  lily ;  a  Madonna  by  Nero  di  Bicci,  and 
that  might  have  been  a  rose;  a  few  panels  by  Lippo 
Lippi,  and  they  were  from  the  convent  garden.  In  Via 
S.    Margherita   you   come   still    upon    a    nosegay   of    such 

25 


386    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

country  blossoms,  growing  still  by  the  wayside  —  Madonna 
with  St.  Anthony,  S.  Margherita,  S.  Costanza,  and  S.  Stefano 
about  her,  painted  by  Filippino  Lippo,  a  very  lovely  shrine, 
such  as  you  cannot  find  in  Florence,  but  which  Prato  seems 
glad  to  possess,  on  the  way  to  the  country  itself. 

And  since  Prato  is  a  child,  there  are  about  her  many 
children ;  mischievous,  shy,  joyful  little  people,  who  lurk 
round  the  coppersmiths,  or  play  in  the  old  churches,  or  hide 
about  the  corridors  of  Palazzo  Comunale.  And  so  it  is  not 
surprising  that  the  greatest  treasures  of  Prato  are  either  the 
work  of  children — the  frescoes,  for  instance,  of  Lippo  Lippi 
and  Lucrezia  Buti  in  the  Duomo — or  the  presentment  of  them, 
yes,  in  their  happiest  moments ;  some  dancing,  while  others 
play  on  pipes,  or  with  cymbals  full  of  surprising  sweetness, 
in  the  open-air  pulpit  of  Donatello ;  a  pulpit  from  which  five 
times  every  year  a  delightful  and  wonderful  thing  is  shown, 
not  without  its  significance,  too,  in  this  child-city  of  children 
— Madonna's  Girdle,  the  Girdle  of  the  Mother  of  them  all, 
shown  in  the  open  air,  so  that  even  the  tiniest  may  see. 

The  Duomo  itself,  simple  and  small,  so  that  you  may  not 
lose  your  way  there,  however  little  you  may  be,  was  built  in 
1 31 7,  though  a  church  has  stood  there  apparently  since 
about  750,  while  the  fa9ade,  all  in  ivory  and  green,  is  a  work 
of  the  fifteenth  century.  Donatello's  pulpit,  for  which  a  con- 
tract was  made  in  1425  which  named  Michelozzo  with  him 
as  one  of  those  industriosi  maestri  intent  on  the  work,  is  built 
into  the  south-west  corner  of  the  church  overlooking  the  Piazza. 
Almost  a  complete  circle  in  form,  it  is  separated,  unfortunately 
we  may  think,  into  seven  panels  divided  by  twin  pilasters, 
where  on  a  mosaic  ground  groups,  crowds  almost,  of  children 
dance  and  play  and  sing.  It  is  the  very  spirit  of  childhood 
you  see  there,  a  naive  impetuosity  that  occasionally  almost 
stumbles  or  forgets  which  way  to  turn ;  and  if  these  panels 
have  not  the  subtler  rhythm  of  the  Cantoria  at  Florence,  they 
are  more  frankly  just  children's  work,  so  that  any  day  you 
may  see  some  little  maid  of  Prato  gazing  at  those  laughing 
babies,    babies   who    dance    really   not    without    a    certain 


PRATO  387 

awkwardness  and  simplicity,  as  though  they  were  her  own 
brothers,  as  indeed  they  are.  Under  the  pulpit,  Michelozzo 
has  forged  in  bronze  a  relief  of  one  face  of  a  capital,  where 
other  children  gaze  with  all  the  serious  innocence  of  childhood 
at  the  pleasant  world  of  the  Piazza. 

Passing  under  the  terra-cotta  of  Madonna  with  St.  Stephen 
and  St.  Laurence,  made  by  Andrea  della  Robbia  in  1489,  you 
enter  the  church  itself,  a  little  dim  and  mysterious,  and  full 
of  wonderful  or  precious  things,  those  pillars,  for  instance,  of 
green  serpentine  or  the  Sacra  Cintola,  the  very  Girdle  of 
Madonna  herself,  in  its  own  chapel  there  on  the  left  behind 
the  beautiful  bronze  screen  of  Bruno  di  Ser  Lapo.  There, 
too,  you  will  always  find  a  group  of  children,  and  surely  it 
was  for  them  that  Agnolo  Gaddi  painted  those  frescoes  of  the 
life  of  Madonna  and  the  gift  of  her  Girdle  to  St.  Thomas.  For 
it  seems  that  doubting  Thomas  was  doubting  to  the  last ;  he 
alone  of  all  the  saints  was  the  least  a  child.  How  they  wonder 
at  him  now,  for  first  he  could  not  believe  that  Jesus  was  risen 
from  the  dead,  when  the  flowers  rise,  when  the  spring  like 
Mary  wanders  to-day  in  tears  in  the  garden.  Was  she  not, 
indeed,  the  spring,  who  at  break  of  day  stood  trembling  on 
the  verge  of  the  garden,  looking  for  the  sun,  the  sun  that 
had  been  dead  all  winter  long  ?  **  They  have  taken  away  my 
Lord,  and  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid  Him."  After  all, 
is  it  not  the  cry  of  our  very  hearts  often  enough  at  Easter, 
when  the  summer  for  which  we  have  waited  too  long  seems 
never  to  be  coming  at  all  ?  It  came  at  last,  and  St.  Thomas, 
like  to  us  maybe,  but  unlike  the  children,  would  not  believe 
it  till  he  had  touched  the  very  dayspring  with  his  hands,  and 
felt  the  old  sweetness  of  the  sunshine.  And  so,  when  the  sun 
was  set  and  the  world  desolate.  Madonna  too  came  to  die,  and 
was  received  into  heaven  amid  a  great  company  of  angels,  and 
they  were  the  flowers,  and  there  she  is  eternally.  Now,  when 
all  this  came  to  pass,  St.  Thomas  was  not  by,  and  when  he 
came  and  saw  Winter  in  the  world  he  would  not  believe  that 
Madonna  was  dead,  nor  would  he  be  persuaded  that  she  was 
crowned  Queen  of  Angels  in  heaven.     And  Mary,  in  pity  of 


388    FLORExNCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

his  sorrow,  sent  him  by  the  hands  of  children  "the  girdle 
with  which  her  body  was  girt," — ^just  a  strip  of  the  blue  sky 
sprinkled  with  stars, — "and  therefore  he  understood  that 
she  was  assumpt  into  heaven."  And  if  you  ask  how  comes 
this  precious  thing  in  Prato,  I  ask  where  else,  then,  could  it 
be  but  in  this  little  city  among  the  children,  where  the 
promise  of  Spring  abides  continually,  and  the  Sun  is  ever  in 
their  hearts.  Ah,  Rose  of  the  world,  dear  Lily  of  the  fields,  you 
will  return ;  like  Spring  you  will  come  from  that  heaven  where 
you  are,  and  in  every  valley  the  flowers  will  run  before  you, 
and  the  poppies  will  stray  among  the  com,  and  the  proud 
gladiolus  will  bow  its  violet  head ;  then  on  the  hillside  I  shall 
hear  again  the  silver  laughter  of  the  olives,  and  in  the  wide 
valleys  I  shall  hear  all  the  rivers  running  to  the  sea,  and  the 
sweet  wind  will  wander  in  the  villages,  and  in  the  walled  cities 
I  shall  find  the  flowers,  and  I  too,  with  the  children,  shall 
wait  on  the  hills  at  dawn  to  see  you  pass  by  with  the  Sun  in 
your  arms  because  it  is  spring — Stella  Matutina,  Causa  nostrae 
laetitiae. 

It  was  a  certain  lad  of  Prato,  Michele  by  name,  who, 
wandering  in  the  wake  of  the  great  army  in  Palestine  in  1096 
at  evening,  by  one  of  the  wells  of  the  desert,  kissed  the  little 
daughter  of  a  great  priest,  who  gave  him  the  Girdle  of  Madonna 
for  love.  Returning  to  Prato  with  this  precious  thing,  and 
having  nowhere  to  hide  it,  he  put  it,  as  a  child  might  do, 
under  his  bed,  and  every  night  the  angels  for  fear  mounted 
guard  about  it.  He  died,  and  it  came  into  the  hands  of  a 
certain  Uberto,  a  priest  of  the  city ;  then,  one  tried  to  steal 
it,  but  he  was  put  to  death,  and  after  the  Girdle  was  placed  in 
the  Duomo  in  a  casket  of  ivory  in  a  chapel  of  marble  between 
the  pillars  of  serpentine  and  lamps  of  gold.  And  Andrea 
Pisano  carved  a  statue  of  Madonna,  and  they  dressed  her  in 
silk  and  placed  her  on  an  altar,  in  which  lay  hidden  the 
promise  of  spring.  Then  Ridolfo  Ghirlandajo  painted  a 
fresco  over  the  west  door,  of  Madonna  with  her  Girdle,  and 
indeed  they  did  all  they  knew  in  honour  of  their  treasure : 
so  that  Mino  da  Fiesole  and  Rossellino  made  a  pulpit  and  set 


PRATO  389 

it  there  in  the  nave,  and  there,  too,  you  may  see  Madonna 
giving  her  Girdle  to  St.  Thomas,  and  St.  Stephen,  the  boy 
martyr,  stoned  to  death,  and  other  remembrances.  In  the 
south  transept  Benedetto  da  Maiano  carved  a  Madonna  and 
Child,  while  his  brothers  carved  a  Pietk ;  but  it  is  not  such 
work  as  this  which  calls  you  to  the  Duomo  to-day,  but 
certainly  the  Girdle  itself,  which,  however,  you  can  only  see  on 
certain  occasions.^  And  then  there  is  the  work  of  those  two 
children,  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  and  the  little  girl  who  ran  away 
from  her  convent  for  love  of  him,  Lucrezia  Buti ;  for  though 
it  was  Lippo  Lippi  who  painted,  it  was  Lucrezia  who  served 
him  for  model,  and  since  with  him  painting,  for  the  first  time 
perhaps,  came  to  need  life  to  inspire  it,  Lucrezia  has  her 
part  in  his  work  which  it  would  be  ungenerous  to  ignore. 

Filippo  Lippi  was  born  in  1406  in  a  by-street  of  Florence 
called  Ardiglione,  behind  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites,  where 
he  painted  his  first  frescoes.  His  mother,  poor  soul,  died  in 
giving  him  life,  and  his  father  died  too  before  he  was  three 
years  old.  For  some  time  he  lived  in  the  care  of  a  certain 
Mona  Lapaccia,  his  aunt,  who  hardly  brought  him  up  till  he 
was  eight  years  old,  when,  as  Vasari  tells  us,  no  longer  able  to 
support  the  burden  of  his  maintenance,  she  took  him  to  the 
Carmelites,  who  promised  to  make  a  friar  of  him.  Florence 
was  at  the  moment  of  its  all  too  brief  spring,  in  which  paint- 
ing and  sculpture  were  to  grow  almost  like  flowers  at  every 
street  corner,  with  a  delicate  beauty  that  is  characteristic  of 
wild  flowers,  which  yet  are  hardy  enough  in  reality.  Reality, 
it  is  just  that  which  is  so  touching  in  the  work  of  this  naive, 
observant  painter,  whose  work  has  much  of  the  beauty  of  a 
folk-song,  one  of  those  rispetti  which  on  every  Tuscan  hill 
you  may  hear  any  summer  day  above  the  song  of  the  cicale. 
He  went  about,  like  the  child  he  was,  his  whole  life  long 
looking  at  things  out  of  curiosity,  and  remembering  them  for 
love.  His  adventures,  those  marvellous  adventures  of  his 
childhood   so   carefully  related   by  Vasari, — his   capture   by 

^  The  occasions  are  Christinas  Day,  Easter  Day,  May  i,  August  15,  and 
September  8. 


390    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

pirates  on  the  beach  of  Ancona,  his  sojourn  in  Barbary,  his 
escape  hardly  won  by  the  astonishment  of  his  art,  are  tales 
which,  whether  true  or  not,  have  a  real  value  for  us  because 
they  are  indicative  of  his  life,  his  view  of  the  world :  his  life 
was  in  itself  so  daring,  so  delightful  an  adventure,  that  nothing 
that  could  have  happened  to  him  can  seem  marvellous  beside 
it.  For  he  has  for  the  first  time  in  Italy  seen  the  things  we 
have  seen,  and  loved  them  :  the  children  at  the  street  comer, 
the  flowers  by  the  wayside,  the  girls  grouped  in  a  doorway 
looking  sideways  up  the  street,  a  mother  nursing  her  little 
struggling  son.  In  142 1  he  had  taken  the  habit,  and  then 
Masaccio  had  come  to  the  convent  to  paint  in  the  Brancacci 
Chapel,  and  Fra  Filippo  watched  him,  helping  him  perhaps, 
certainly  fired  by  his  work,  till  he  who  had  played  in  the 
streets  of  Florence  decided  that  he  must  be  a  painter.  It  is 
characteristic  of  his  whole  method  that  from  the  very 
beginning  the  cloister  was  too  strait  for  him ;  he  had  the 
passion  for  seeing  things,  people,  the  life  of  the  city,  of  strange 
cities  too,  for  we  hear  of  him  vaguely  in  Naples,  but  soon  in 
Florence  again,  where  he  painted  in  S.  Ambrogio  for  the  nuns 
the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  now  in  the  Accademia.  It  was 
this  picture  which  Cosimo  came  upon,  and,  finding  the  painter, 
took  him  into  his  house.  And  truly,  it  was  something  very 
different  from  the  holy  work  of  Angelico,  a  painter  Cosimo 
loved  so  well,  that  he  found  in  that  picture  of  the  Coronation. 
That  Virgin,  was  she  Queen  of  Angels  or  some  Florentine 
girl  ? — and  then  those  angels,  are  they  not  the  very  children 
of  the  City  of  Flowers  ?  But  Lippo  was  not  content ;  he  who 
had  found  the  convent  too  narrow  for  him  in  his  insatiable 
desire  for  life,  was  not  likely  to  be  content  with  any  burgher's 
palace.  Cosimo  ordered  pictures,  Lippo  laughed  in  the  streets, 
so  they  locked  him  in,  and  he  knotted  the  sheets  of  the  bed 
together  and  let  himself  out  of  the  window,  and  for  days  he 
lived  in  the  streets.  So  Cosimo  let  him  alone,  '*  labouring  to 
keep  him  at  his  work  by  kindness,"  understanding,  perhaps, 
that  it  was  a  child  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  a  child  full  of 
the  wayward  impulses  of  children,  the  naive  genius  of  youth. 


PRATO  391 

the  happiness  of  all  that ; — the  passions,  too ;  a  passion,  in 
Filippo's  case,  for  kisses.  He  was  never  far  from  a  girl's  arms  ; 
and  then  how  he  has  painted  them,  shy,  roguish,  wanton 
daughters  of  Florence,  with  their  laughing,  obstinate,  kicking 
babies,  half  laughing,  half  smiling,  altogether  serious  too, 
while  Lippo  paints  them  with  a  kiss  for  payment. 

Filippo  spent  some  months  in  Prato  with  his  friend  Fra 
Diamente,  who  had  been  his  companion  in  novitiate.  The 
nuns  of  S.  Margherita  commissioned  him  to  paint  a  picture 
for  their  high  altar,  and  it  was  while  at  work  there  that  he 
caught  sight  of  Lucrezia  Buti.  "  Fra  Filippo,"  say  Vasari, 
"  having  had  a  glance  at  the  girl,  who  was  very  beautiful  and 
graceful,  so  persuaded  the  nuns  that  he  prevailed  upon  them 
to  permit  him  to  make  a  likeness  of  her  for  the  figure  of  their 
Virgin."  The  picture,  now  in  Paris,  was  finished,  not  before 
Filippo  had  fallen  in  love  with  Lucrezia  and  she  with  him,  so 
that  he  led  her  away  from  the  nuns ;  and  on  a  certain  day, 
when  she  had  gone  forth  to  do  honour  to  the  Cintola,  he 
bore  her  from  their  keeping.  "  Take  us  the  foxes,  the  little 
foxes  that  spoil  the  vineyards ;  for  our  vineyards  have  tender 
grapes." 

Vasari  tells  us  that  Lucrezia  never  returned,  but  remained 
with  Filippo,  bearing  him  a  son,  —  that  Filippino  "  who 
eventually  became  a  most  excellent  and  very  famous  painter 
like  his  father." 

And  it  is  said  that  not  Lucrezia  alone  was  involved  in  that 
adventure,  for  she  had  a  sister  not  less  lovely  than  herself, 
called  Spinetta ;  she  also  fled  away,  and  this  again  brought 
disgrace  on  the  nuns,  so  that  the  Pope  himself  was  compelled 
to  interfere,  for  they  were  all  living  in  Prato,  not  in  disgrace 
but  happily,  children  in  a  city  of  children.  Cosimo,  however, 
befriended  them,  and  would  laugh  till  the  tears  came  in  telling 
the  tale,  till  Pius  11,  not  altogether  himself  guiltless  of  the  love 
of  women,  at  his  request  unfrocked  Filippo  and  authorised  his 
union  with  Lucrezia.  However  this  may  be,  and  however 
strange  it  may  seem,  this  wolf,  who  had  stolen  the  lamb  from 
the   fold    of    Holy    Church,    was   engaged   by   the    Duomo 


392    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

authorities  in  this  very  city  of  the  theft  to  paint  in  fresco 
there  in  the  choir  the  story  of  St.  John  Baptist  and  of  St. 
Stephen.  It  is  a  masterpiece.  As  we  look  to-day  on  the 
faded  beauty  of  his  work,  it  is  with  surprise  we  ask  ourselves 
why  he  has  signed  the  fresco  of  the  death  of  St.  Stephen,  for 
instance,  Frater  Filippus ;  surely  he  was  frater  no  longer,  but 
Sponsus.  He  worked  for  four  years  at  those  frescoes,  Fra 
Diamente  coming  from  Florence  to  help  him.  He  was  a 
child,  and  the  children  of  Prato  understood  him — the  Medici 
too ;  for  when  the  work  in  Prato  was  finished,  Piero  de' 
Medici  roused  himself  to  find  him  work,  again  in  a  church, 
the  Duomo  of  Spoleto,  where  he  has  painted  very  sweetly  the 
Annunciation,  the  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds,  the  Corona- 
tion of  the  Virgin.  Could  these  things  have  happened  in 
any  other  city  save  Prato,  or  to  any  other  than  a  child  in 
the  days  not  so  long  before  Savonarola  was  burned  ?  No ; 
Fra  Lippo  played  among  the  children  of  Italy,  and  has  told 
us  of  them  with  simplicity  and  sweetness, — little  stumbling 
fellows  of  the  house  doors,  the  laughing  children  about  the 
fountains,  the  slim,  pale  girls  who  walk  arm-in-arm,  smiling 
faintly,  in  every  Tuscan  city  at  sunset,  the  flowers  by  the 
wayside,  the  shepherds  of  the  hills.  And  he  has  made  Jesus 
in  the  image  of  his  little  son ;  and  Madonna  is  but  Lucrezia 
Buti,  whom  he  kissed  into  the  world.  You  may  see  them 
to-day  if  you  will  go  to  Prato. 


XXVIII 
PISTOJA 

IF  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  dreamed  his  whole  life  long  of  the 
resurrection  of  love  among  men,  and  in  the  valleys  of 
Umbria  went  about  like  a  second  Jesus  doing  good,  with  an 
immense  love  in  his  heart  singing  his  Laudes  Creaturarum  by 
the  wayside ;  Dante  Alighieri,  the  greatest  poet  of  his  country, 
might  almost  seem  to  have  been  overwhelmed  with  hatred, 
a  hatred  which  is  perhaps  but  the  terrible  reverse  of  an 
intolerable  love,  but  which  is  an  impeachment,  nevertheless, 
not  only  of  his  own  time,  of  the  cities  of  his  country,  but 
of  himself  too,  for  while  he  thus  sums  up  the  Middle  Age 
and  judges  it,  he  is  himself  its  most  marvellous  child,  losing 
himself  at  last  in  one  of  its  ideals.  St.  Francis  of  Assisi, 
concerned  only  with  humanity,  has  by  love  contrived  the 
Renaissance  of  man,  assured  as  he  was  by  the  love  of  God, 
His  delight  in  us  His  creatures.  But  for  Dante,  bitter  with 
loneliness,  wandering  in  the  Hell,  the  Purgatory,  the  Paradise 
of  his  own  heart,  any  such  wide  and  overwhelming  love 
might  seem  to  have  been  impossible.  Imprisoned  in  the 
adamant  of  his  personality,  he  has  little  but  hatred  and 
contempt  for  the  world  he  knew  so  well.  How  scornful  he 
is  !  Some  secret  sorrow  seems  to  have  burnt  up  the  wells 
of  sweetness  in  his  nature,  from  which  he  once  drew  a  love 
for  all  mankind.  He  seems  to  have  gone  about  hating 
people,  so  that  if  he  speaks  of  Florence  it  is  with  a  passionate 
enmity,  if  of  Siena  with  scorn,  Pisa  has  only  his  contempt, 
Arezzo  is  to  him  abominable  and  beastly.  He  has  judged 
his  country  as  God  Himself  will  not  judge  it,  and  he  kept 

393 


394    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

his  anger  for  ever.     And  since  the  great  Florentine  can  bring 

himself  to  bid  Rorence 

"Godi,  Fiorenra  poi  che  sei  si  grande 
Che  per  mare,  e  per  terra  batti  I'ali, 
E  per  r  Inferno  il  tuo  nome  si  spande," 

it  is  not  wonderful  that  Pistoja  is  lost  in  his  scorn.  Coming 
upon  Vanni  Fucci  continually  consumed  by  the  adder,  he 
hears  him  say 

"Ahi  Pistoja,  Pistoja,  chh  non  stanzi 
D'incenerarti,  si  che  piii  non  duri 
Poi  che  in  mal  far  lo  seme  tuo  avanzt  ? " 

"  O  Giustizia  di  Dio,  quanto  ^  severa,  .  .  ."  yet  Dante's  will 
beggar  it. 

The  origin  of  Pistoja  is  obscure.  Some  ascribe  its  founda- 
tion to  the  Boian  Gauls,  some  to  the  Romans ;  however  that 
may  be,  it  was  here  in  Pistoria,  as  the  city  was  then  called, 
that  the  army  of  the  Republic  came  up  with  Cataline,  and 
defeated  him  and  slew  him  in  B.C.  62.  There  follows  an 
impenetrable  silence,  unbroken  till,  by  the  will  of  the 
Countess  Matilda,  Tuscany  passed,  not  without  protest  as 
we  know,  to  the  Pope,  when  Pistoja  seems  to  have  vindicated 
its  liberty  in  1 1 1 7,  its  commune  contriving  her  celebrated 
muncipal  statutes.  In  1198  she  made  one  of  the  Tuscan 
League  against  the  empire,  and  in  the  first  year  of 
the  thirteenth  century  she  had  extended  her  power  over 
the  neighbouring  strongholds  from  Fucecchio  to  Amo. 
After  the  death  of  Frederic  11,  in  1250,  she  became  Guelph 
with  the  greater  part  of  Tuscany,  and  in  1266  took  part  with 
Charles  of  Anjou  and  fought  on  his  side  at  Benevento  under 
the  Pistojese  captains,  Giovanni  and  Corrado  da  Montemagno. 
About  this  time  we  first  hear  the  name  Cancellieri,  Cialdo 
de'  Cancellieri  being  Potest^  At  Campaldino  the  Pistojese 
fought  under  Corso  Donati,  and  turned  the  battle  against  the 
Aretines ;  and  it  was  under  the  Potest^  Giano  della  Bella  in 
1294I    that    the    Priore   of  the  twelve    anziani  established 

'  Cf.  Dino  Campagni,  Cronica  Fiorentina,  Book  I,  p.  62.  When  apn 
pointed  Podest4  of  Pistoja,  Giano  rather  raised  strife  than  pacified  the 
factions.     Cf.  also  Villari,  History  of  Florence,  p.  445. 


PlSTOJA  395 

after  Campaldino  was  named  Gonfaloniere  of  Justice.  We 
have  a  vivid  picture  in  Villani  of  Pistoja  in  1300.  "In 
these  times,"  says  the  prince  of  Florentine  chroniclers,  "  the 
city  of  Pistoja  being  in  happy  and  great  and  good  estate, 
among  the  other  citizens  there  was  one  family  very  noble 
and  puissant,  not,  however,  of  very  ancient  lineage,  which 
was  called  Cancellieri,  born  of  Ser  Cancelliere,  which  was  a 
merchant  and  gained  much  wealth,  and  by  his  two  wives 
had  many  sons,  which,  by  reason  of  their  riches,  all  became 
knights  and  men  of  worth  and  substance,  and  from  them 
were  born  many  sons  and  grandsons,  so  that  at  this  time 
they  numbered  more  than  one  hundred  men  in  arms,  rich 
and  puissant  and  of  many  affairs ;  and  indeed,  not  only 
were  they  the  leading  citizens  of  Pistoja,  but  they  were 
among  the  more  puissant  families  of  Tuscany.  There  arose 
among  them,  through  their  exceeding  prosperity,  and  through 
the  suggestion  of  the  devil,  contempt  and  enmity,  between 
them  which  were  born  of  one  wife  and  them  which  were 
born  of  the  other ;  and  the  one  took  the  name  of  the 
Black  Cancellieri,  and  the  other  of  the  White,  and  this  grew 
until  they  fought  together,  but  it  was  not  any  great  affair. 
And  one  of  those  on  the  side  of  the  White  Cancellieri,  having 
been  wounded,  they  on  the  side  of  the  Black  Cancellieri,  to 
the  end  they  might  be  at  peace  and  concord  with  them, 
sent  him  which  had  done  the  injury  and  handed  him  over  to 
the  mercy  of  them  which  had  received  it,  that  they  should 
take  amend,  and  vengeance  for  it  at  their  will ;  they  on  the 
side  of  the  White  Cancellieri,  ungrateful  and  proud,  having 
neither  pity  nor  love,  cut  off  the  hand  of  him  which  had 
been  commended  to  their  mercy  on  a  horse-manger.  By 
which  sinful  beginning  not  only  was  the  house  of  Cancellieri 
divided,  but  many  violent  deaths  arose  thereupon,  and  all 
the  city  of  Pistoja  was  divided,  for  some  held  with  one  part 
and  some  with  the  other,  and  they  called  themselves  the 
Whites  and  the  Blacks,  forgetting  among  themselves  the 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline  parties ;  and  many  civil  strifes  and 
much  peril  and  loss  of  life  arose  therefore  in  Pistoja.  .  .  ." 


396    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

The  Whites  seem  to  have  been  little  more  than  Ghibellines, 
to  which  party  they  presently  allied  themselves,  when  Andrea 
Gherardini  was  captain.  This  party  soon  got  the  upper  hand 
in  Pistoja,  thus  bringing  down  the  hatred  of  the  Lucchesi 
and  the  Fiorentini ;  a  cruel  siege  and  pillage — touchingly 
described  by  Dino  Campagni — followed  in  1305.  Exiled, 
the  Whites  thronged  to  the  banner  of  Uguccine,  and  helped 
to  win  the  battle  of  Montecatini  in  1305.  This  done, 
Uguccione  became  tyrant  of  Pistoja  till  Castruccio  Castracani 
flung  him  out,  and  by  the  will  of  Lewis  of  Bavaria  became 
himself  tyrant  of  the  city,  defeating  the  Florentines  again  in 
1325.  In  his  absence  the  Florentines  besieged  Pistoja 
again  three  years  later,  and  took  it ;  the  fortunate  death  of 
Castruccio  confirming  them  in  their  conquest,  which  thus 
became  the  vassal  of  the  Lily. 

Such  in  brief  is  the  story  of  Pistoja ;  but  if  we  look  a  little 
more  closely  into  the  mere  confusion  of  those  wars,  two  facts  will 
perhaps  emerge  clearly,  and  help  us  to  understand  the  position. 

Florence,  a  city  of  merchants,  was  the  last  power  in  Italy  to 
make  war  for  the  pleasure  of  fighting,  yet  in  turn  she 
conquered  every  city  in  Tuscany,  save  Lucca  alone.^  What 
can  have  been  the  overmastering  necessity  that  drove  her 
on  so  bloody  a  path  ?  Certainly  not  a  love  of  empire,  for 
she,  who  was  so  unfortunate  in  the  art  of  government,  was  not 
likely  to  lust  for  dominion.  Like  all  the  Florentine  wars, 
that  which  at  last  brought  Pisa  under  her  yoke  was  a 
war  on  behalf  of  the  guilds  of  Florence,  a  war  of  merchants. 
Florence  humbled  Pisa  because  Pisa  held  the  way  to  the 
sea,  she  brought  Arezzo  and  Siena  low  and  bought  Cortona 
because  they  stood  on  the  roads  to  Rome,  whose  banker  she 
was.2  And  did  not  Pistoja  guard  the  way  to  the  north,  to 
Bologna,  to  Milan,  to  Planders,  and  England,  whence  came 

*  Strictly  speaking,  she  never  conquered  Siena  ;  Charles  V  did  that. 

'  I  am  aware  that,  in  the  Middle  Age,  Cortona  and  Arezzo  were  not  on 
the  direct  road  to  Rome,  but  so  far  as  Florence  was  concerned,  Siena,  her 
rival,  held  that  she  acquired  these  cities  to  keep  the  way  by  Val  d'Arno 
and  Cortona  open.     Cf.  Repetti  v.  715. 


PISTOJA  397 

the  wool  that  was  her  wealth  ?  ^  Thus  in  those  days  as  to-day, 
war  was  not  a  game  which  one  might  play  or  not  as  one 
pleased,  but  the  inexorable  result  of  the  circumstances  of 
life.  When  Bologna  closed  the  passes,  Florence  was  com- 
pelled to  fight  or  to  die ;  when  Pisa  taxed  her  merchandise 
she  signed  her  own  death. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  passionate  desire  of  Pistoja  was  to 
be  free.  Liberty — it  was  the  dream  of  her  life ;  not  the  liberty 
of  the  people,  but  the  essential  liberty  of  the  State,  of  the  city. 
When  the  Emperor  was  far  off,  she  was  Ghibelline  because 
the  Pope  was  near  at  hand ;  when  the  Emperor  was  at  her 
gates,  she  was  Guelph  because  the  Pope  was  far  away.  All 
her  life  long  she  feared  lest  Florence  should  eat  her  up : 
that  death  was  ever  before  her  eyes.  This  and  this  alone  is 
the  cause  of  the  hate  of  the  great  Florentine :  he  hated 
Florence  with  an  intolerable  love  because  she  thrust  him  out ;  he 
hated  Pisa,  Arezzo,  Siena,  and  Pistoja  because  they  feared  or 
rivalled  Florence,  and  would  not  be  reconciled.  His  dream 
of  an  Italy  united  under  a  foreign  Emperor,  the  ghost  of  the 
Roman  Empire,  remained  a  dream,  noble  and  yet  ignoble  too ; 
for  it  is  for  this  that  we  may  accuse  him  of  a  lack  of  clairvoyance, 
a  real  failure  to  appreciate  the  future,  which  in  the  innumerable 
variety  of  her  cities  gave  Italy  an  intellectual  life  less  sustained 
and  clear  than  the  intellectual  life  of  Greece,  but  more  spiritual 
and  more  various.  In  Italy  Antiquity  and  Hebraism  became 
friends,  to  our  undoubted  benefit,  to  the  gain  of  the  whole  world. 

But  little  is  left  in  the  smiling,  gracious  city  to-day  to 
recall  those  bitter  quarrels  so  long  ago.  Pistoja,  beyond  any 
other  Tuscan  town  perhaps,  is  full  of  grace,  and  gives  one 
always,  as  it  were,  a  smiling  salutation.  La  Ferrignosa  she 
was  called  of  old,  but  it  is  the  last  title  that  fits  her  now, 
for  the  clank  of  her  irons  has  long  been  silent,  and  nothing 
any  longer  disturbs  the  quiet  of  her  days.  S.  Atto  is  her 
saint,  and  it  is  by  his  street  that  you  enter  the  city,  walled 
still,  coming  at  last  into  the  Piazza  Cino,  Cino  da  Pistoja, 

'  That  Pistoja  was  not  on  the  great  Via  Franccsca  goes  for  nothing,  she 
threatened  it. 


398  FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

one  of  the  sweetest  and  least  fortunate  of  Tuscan  poets. 
Turning  thence  into  Via  Cavour,  you  come  to  S.  Giovanni 
Evangelista,  once  without  the  walls,  but  now  not  far  from 
the  middle  of  the  city,  really  the  earliest  of  her  churches,  a 
Lombard  building  of  about  i  i6o,  the  fagade  decorated  some- 
what in  the  Pisan  manner  with  rows  of  pillars,  while  over 
the  gates  is  a  relief  of  the  Last  Supper,  by  Gruamonte,  whom 
some  have  thought  to  be  the  architect  of  the  church.  Within 
is  the  beautiful  pulpit  of  Fra  Guglielmo,  disciple  of  Niccolb 
Pisano,  and  there  on  the  east  he  has  carved  the  Annunciation 
and  the  Birth  of  Jesus ;  on  the  north,  the  Washing  of  the 
Disciples'  Feet,  the  Crucifixion,  the  Deposition,  and  Christ  in 
Hades ;  while  on  the  west  is  the  Ascension  and  the  Death  of 
the  Virgin.  And  just  as  at  Bologna,  in  the  tomb  of  St. 
Dominic,  Fra  Guglielmo's  work  is  but  an  inferior  copy  of  the 
style  of  his  master,  so  here  in  this  pulpit,  built  most  probably 
in  1270,  we  find  just  Niccolo's  work  spoiled,  in  a  mere  repeti- 
tion, feeble,  and  without  any  of  the  devotional  spirit  we  might 
expect  in  the  work  of  a  friar.  Beside  it,  near  the  next  altar, 
is  a  very  beautiful  group  in  glazed  terra-cotta,  in  the  manner 
of  the  Robbia,  by  Fra  Paolino.  The  holy  water  basin  sup- 
ported by  figures  of  the  Virtues  is  a  much-injured  work  by 
Giovanni  Pisano.  Following  Via  Cavour,  past  Palazzo  Pan- 
ciatichi-Cellesi,  through  Via  Francesco  Magni,  into  Piazza  del 
Duomo,  you  are  in  the  midst  of  all  that  was  most  splendid 
in  Pistoja  of  old :  the  Duomo,  with  its  old  fortified  tower, 
Torre  del  Potest^,  which  still  carries  the  arms  of  those 
captains ;  the  Baptistery,  high  above  the  way,  designed  by 
Andrea  Pisano,  with  its  open-air  pulpit  and  broken  sculp- 
tures ;  the  magnificent  Palazzo  del  Comune  ;  and  opposite,  the 
not  less  splendid  Palazzo  Pretorio,  the  palace  of  the  Podestk. 
Of  old  the  Piazza  was  less  spacious,  but  in  131 2  it  was 
enlarged,  and  later  too,  the  palace  of  the  Capitano,  on  the 
north,  was  destroyed.  Here  every  Wednesday  they  still 
hold  the  corn-market,  and  every  Saturday  a  market  of  stuffs, 
silks,  and  tissues. 

It  was  S.  Romolo  who  first  brought  the  gospel  to  Pistoja, 


PISTOJA  399 

and  the  tradition  is  that  he  converted  a  temple  built  by  the 
Romans  to  the  God  Mars  into  a  church,  on  the  spot  where 
now  the  Duomo  stands,^  and  indeed  in  1599  certain  inscrifH 
tions  were  found,  and  the  capitals  of  some  Roman  columns. 
It  is  generally  thought  that  a  church  was  built  here  in  the 
early  part  of  the  fifth  century,  dedicated  to  St.  Martin  of 
Tours,  on  whose  day  Stilicho,  that  Roman  general  who  was 
by  birth  a  Vandal,  gained  a  victory  over  Radaugasius  and  his 
army  of  some  400,000  Goths,  who  had  ravaged  the  country 
as  far  as  Florence  in  406.  However  this  may  be,  in  589 
the  church  was  finally  rebuilt,  and  certainly  re-dedicated  to 
S.  Zenone,  the  Bishop  of  Verona,  who,  so  it  was  said,  had 
saved  the  Pistojese  from  the  floods  by  breaking  through  the 
Gonfolina  Pass,  that  narrow  defile  beyond  Signa  through 
which  Arno  flows,  with  Ombrone  in  her  bosom,  into  the 
Empolese.  After  being  dedicated  at  various  times  to  many 
saints,  in  1443  it  was  rededicated  to  S.  Zenone,  whose  name 
it  still  bears.  The  present  church  is  for  the  most  part  a 
work  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  certainly  not  the  work  of 
Niccolb  Pisano.  The  fagade,  like  the  rest  of  the  church, 
has  suffered  an  unfortunate  restoration.  The  marble  loggia 
is  a  work  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  the  two  statues  are,  one  of 
S.  Jacopo,  by  Scarpellino,  the  other  of  S.  Zenone,  by  Andrea 
Vacck,  The  beautiful  terra-cotta  over  the  great  door  of  Ma- 
donna and  Child  with  Angels,  and  the  roof  above,  are  the  work 
of  Andrea  della  Robbia.  The  frescoes  of  the  story  of  S,  Jacopo 
are  fourteenth-century  work  of  Giovanni  Balducci  the  Pisan. 

The  splendid  and  fierce  Campanile,  still  called  Torre  del 
Potest^,  stood  till  about  the  year  1 200,  alone,  a  stronghold  of  the 
city.     Giovanni  Pisano  converted  it  to  its  present  form  in  1301. 

Within,  the  church  has  been  greatly  spoiled.  The  monu- 
ment to  Cino  da  Pistoja,  poet  and  professor,  was  decreed  in 
1337  by  the  Popolo  Pistojese,  and  was  moved  about  the 

*  There  is  a  most  excellent  little  book,  Nuora  Guida  di  Pistoja,  by  Cav. 
Prof.  Guiseppe  Tigri  (Pistoja,  1896),  which  I  strongly  recommend  to  the 
reader's  notice.  I  wish  to  acknowledge  my  debt  to  it.  Unlike  so  many 
guides,  it  is  full  of  life  itself,  and  makes  the  city  live  for  us  also. 


400    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

church  from  one  place  to  another,  till  in  1839  it  was  erected 
in  its  present  position.  There  you  may  see  him  lecturing  to 
his  students,  and  one  of  them  is  a  woman ;  can  it  be  that 
Selvaggia  whom  he  loved  ? 

"Ay  me,  alas!   the  beautiful  bright  hair  ..." 

"Weep,  Pistoja,"  says  Petrarch,  in  not  the  least  musical 
of  his  perfect  sonnets,  in  celebrating  the  death  of  his  master — 

"  Pianga  Pistoia  e  i  cittadin  perversi 
Che  perdut'  hanno  si  dolce  vicino ; 
E  rallegres'  il  ciel  or'  ello  i  gito." 

Dante,  who  exchanged  sonnets  with  Cino  and  rallied  him 
about  his  inconstancy,  calls  the  Pistojese  worthy  of  the  Beast  ^ 
who  dwelt  among  them  ;  Petrarch  calls  them  /  citadin  perversi  \ 
the  truth  being  that  the  Neri  were  in  power  and  had  exiled 
"  il  nostro  amoroso  messer  Cino." 

Close  by,  against  the  west  wall,  is  the  great  font  of  Andrea 
Ferrucci,  the  disciple  of  Bernardo  Rossellino,  with  five  reliefs 
of  the  story  of  St.  John  Baptist  Opposite  Cino's  monu- 
ment is  the  tomb  of  Cardinal  Fortiguerra.  For  long  this 
disappointing  monument,  so  full  of  gesticulation,  passed  as 
the  work  of  Verrocchio;  it  is  to-day  attributed  rather  to 
Lorenzetto,  his  disciple. 

Passing  up  the  north  aisle,  we  enter  at  last  the  Capella  del 
Sacramento,  under  whose  altar  St.  Felix,  the  Pistojese,  sleeps, 
while  on  the  south  wall  hangs  one  of  the  best  works  of  Lorenzo 
di  Credi,  Madonna  with  Jesus  in  her  arms,  and  St.  John  Baptist 
and  S.  Zenone  on  either  side.  Opposite  is  the  bust  of  Bishop 
Donato  de'  Medici,  by  Antonio  Rossellino.  The  little  crypt 
under  the  high  altar  is  scarcely  worth  a  visit,  but  the  great 
treasure  of  the  church,  the  silver  frontal  of  the  high  altar, 
is  now  to  be  found  in  the  Cappella  della  Cittk,  and  over  it,  in 
a  chest  within  the  reredos,  is  the  body,  still  uncorrupted,  of 
S.  Atto,  Bishop  of  Pistoja,  who  died  in  1155.  The  silver 
frontal,  certainly  the  finest  in  Italy,  with  its  wings  and  reredos 
of  silver  and  enamel,  was  removed  from  the  high  altar  in 

*  Bestia,  probably  a  nickname  of  Vanni  Fucci's  :  cf.  Inferno,  xxiv.  125. 


PISTOJA  40t 

1786.  The  frontal  itself  is  the  work  of  Andrea  di  Puccio  di 
Ognabene,  the  Pistojese  goldsmith  :  it  was  finished  in  1316. 
It  is  carved  with  fifteen  stories  from  the  New  Testament, 
and  with  many  statues  of  prophets  and  pictures  of  saints. 
Of  the  two  wings,  that  on  the  left,  consisting  of  stories  from 
the  Old  Testament,  with  the  Nativity,  the  Presentation  and  the 
Marriage  of  the  Virgin,  is  the  work  of  Pietro  of  Florence — it 
was  finished  about  1357;  that  on  the  right,  carved  in  1371 
by  Leonardo  di  Ser  Giovanni,  consists  of  the  story  of  St. 
James  and  the  finding  of  his  body  at  Campostella.  All 
the  guide-books  tell  you  that  it  was  this  treasure  that  Vanni 
Fucci  stole  on  Shrove  Tuesday  in  1292,  but,  as  I  suppose, 
since  this  altar  was  not  begun  till  13 14,  it  must  have  been  the 
earlier  treasure  which  this  replaced.  Vanni  Fucci  is  famous 
because  of  his  encounter  with  Dante  in  Hell. 

"Vanni  Fucci  am  I  called, 
Not  long  since  rained  down  from  Tuscany 
To  this  dire  gullet.     Me  the  bestial  life 
And  not  the  human  pleased,  mule  that  I  was, 
Who  in  Pistoja  found  my  worthy  den." 

Dante  tell  us — 

"  I  did  not  mark 
Through  all  the  gloomy  circles  of  the  abyss. 
Spirit  that  swelled  so  proudly  'gainst  his  God.'" 

It  is  in  Pistoja  better  almost  than  anywhere  else  in  Italy 
that  these  early  sculptors — men  who  were  at  work  here  before 
Niccolb  Pisano  came  from  Apulia — may  be  studied.  Rude 
enough  as  we  may  think,  they  are  yet  in  their  subtle  beauty, 
if  we  will  but  look  at  them,  a  marvellous  tribute  to  a  time 
which  many  have  thought  altogether  barbarous.  Consider, 
then,  the  reliefs  over  the  door  of  S.  Giovanni  Fuorcivitas,  or 
the  sculptures  on  the  fagade  of  S.  Bartolommeo  in  Pantano, 
the  work  of  Rodolfinus  and  Guido  Bigarelli  of  Como :  they 
are  all  works  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  if  we  find  there  no 
trace,  as  Burckhardt  says,  of  the  old  traditions,  it  is,  as  I  think, 
no  naive  beginning  we  see,  but  the  last  hours  of  an  art  that 
is  already  thousands  of  years  old,  about  to  be  born  again 
*  Inferno^  xxiv.  125,  126  ;  xxv.  13,  14, 
26 


402    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

in  the  work  of  Pisano.  And  indeed  we  may  trace  very 
happily  the  rise  of  Tuscan  sculpture  in  Pistoja.  Though  she 
possesses  no  work  of  Niccolb  himself,  his  influence  is  supreme 
in  the  pulpit  of  S.  Giovanni  Fuorcivitas,  and  it  is  the  beautiful 
work  of  his  son  Giovanni  we  see  in  the  great  pulpit  of  S. 
Andrea,  where  you  enter  by  a  door  carved  in  1166  by 
Gruamonte  with  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi.  Unlike  the 
work  of  Fra  Guglielmo  in  S.  Giovanni,  the  pulpit  of  S.  Andrea 
is  hexagonal,  and  there  Giovanni  has  carved  in  high  relief  the 
Birth  of  Our  Lord,  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  the  Murder 
of  the  Innocents,  the  Crucifixion,  and  the  Last  Judgment. 
They  were  carved  in  1301,  before  Giovanni  began  the  Pisan 
pulpit  now  in  the  Museo  in  that  city.  And  if  we  see  here 
the  first  impulse  of  the  Gothic,  the  romantic  spirit,  in  Italian 
work,  as  in  Niccolb's  work  we  have  seen  the  classic  inspiration, 
it  is  the  far  result  of  these  that  we  may  discover  in  the 
terra-cotta  frieze  on  the  vestibule  of  the  Ospedale  del  Ceppo. 
That  is  a  work  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  thus  the  fifteenth- 
century  work,  ever  present  with  us  in  Florence,  is  missing 
here.  It  is  not,  however,  to  any  member  of  the  Robbia 
family  that  we  owe  this  beautiful  work,  I  think,  but  to  some 
unknown  sculptor  with  whom  Buglione  may  have  worked. 
For  the  seven  reliefs  representing  works  of  Charity  and  divided 
by  figures  of  the  Virtues  are  of  a  surprising  splendour  and 
really  classic  beauty,  and  Burckhardt  wishes  to  compare  them 
with  the  frescoes  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  his  companions 
rather  than  with  the  sculpture  of  that  time. 

One  wanders  about  this  quiet,  alluring  city,  where  the 
sculptures  are  scattered  like  flowers  on  every  church  porch 
and  municipal  building,  without  the  weariness  of  the  sightseer. 
One  day  you  go  by  chance  to  S.  Francesco  al  Prato,  a 
beautiful  and  spacious  church  in  a  wilderness  of  Piazza,  built 
in  1294.  And  there  suddenly  you  come  upon  the  little 
flowers  of  St.  Francis,  faded  and  fallen — here  a  brown  rose,  there 
a  withered  petal ;  here  a  lily  broken  short,  there  a  nosegay 
drooped  and  dead :  and  you  realise  that  here  you  are  face  to 
face  with  something  real  which  has  passed  away,  and  so  it  is 


PISTOJA  403 

with  joy  you  hurry  out  into  the  sun,  which  will  always  shine 

with  splendour  and  life,  the  one  thing  perhaps  that,  if  these 

dead  might  rise  from  their  tombs  in  S.  Francesco,  they  would 

recognise  as  a  friend,  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever. 

Other  churches  too  there  are  in  Pistoja :  S.  Piero  Maggiore, 

where,  as  in  Florence,  so  here,  the  Bishop,  coming  to  the 

city,  was  wedded  in  a  lovely  symbol  to  the  Benedictine  Abbess 

— there  too  are  the  works  of  Maestro  Bono  the  sculptor ;  S. 

Salvadore,  which  stands  in  the  place  where,  as  it  is  said,  they 

buried    Cataline;    S.    Domenico,   where   you    may    find    the 

beautiful  tombs  of  Andrea  Franchi  and  of  Filippo  Lazzeri 

the  humanist — this  made  by  Rossellino  in  1494.     Pistoja  is 

a  city  of  churches ;  one  wanders  into  them  and  out  again 

always  with   new  delight ;   and   indeed,  they  lend  a  sort  of 

gravity  to  a  place  that  is  light-hearted  and  alluring  beyond 

almost  any  other  in  this  part  of  Tuscany  certainly.     Thinking 

thus  of  her  present  sweetness,  one  is  glad  to  find  that  one 

poet  at  least  has  thought  Dante  too  hard  with  men.     It  is 

strange  that  it  should  be  Cino  who  sings — 

"This  book  of  Dante's,  very  sooth  to  say, 
Is  just  a  poet's  lovely  heresy, 
Which  by  a  lure  as  sweet  as  sweet  can  be 
Draws  other  men's  concerns  beneath  its  sway  ; 
While,  among  stars'  and  comets'  dazzling  play, 
It  beats  the  right  down,  let's  the  wrong  go  free, 
Shows  some  abased,  and  others  in  great  glee, 
Much  as  with  lovers  is  Ix)ve's  ancient  way. 
Therefore  his  vain  decrees,  wherein  he  lied, 
Fixing  folks'  nearness  to  the  Fiend  their  foe, 
Must  be  like  empty  nutshells  flung  aside. 
Yet  through  the  vast  false  witness  set  to  grow, 
French  and  Italian  vengeance  on  such  pride 
May  fall,  like  Antony's  on  Cicero."  ^ 

^  "  Cino  impugns  the  verdicts  of  Dante's  Commedia"  a  sonnet  translated 
by  D.  G.  Rossetti. 

Note. — No  English  writer  has  written  well  of  Pistoja,  for  first  they  always 
write  from  a  Florentine  point  of  view,  and  then  they  quit  too  soon.  I  plead 
guilty  too.  The  key-note  to  Pistoja  is  given  in  that  saying  of  Macchiavelli's, 
that  the  Florentine  people  '*  per  fuggire  il  nome  di  crudele  lascio  dis- 
Iruggere  Pistoia."  II  Principe,  cap.  xvii.  Cf.  also  Discorsi  iii.  27. 
It  is,  of  course,  all  a  matter  of  Panciatichi  and  Cancellieri.  Cf.  Edekauer 
Statuti  Pistoiesi  dei  Secoli  xii.  e  xiii. 


XXIX 

LUCCA 

WHO  that  has  ever  seen  the  Pistojese  the  Val  di  Lima, 
the  country  of  S.  Marcello,  the  Val  di  Reno,  the 
country  about  Pracchia,  does  not  love  it — the  silent  ways 
through  the  chestnut  woods,  the  temperance  of  the  hill 
country  after  the  heat  of  the  cities,  the  country  ways  after 
the  ways  of  the  town  ?  And  there  are  songs  there  too.  But 
to-day  my  way  lies  through  the  valley,  Val  di  Nievole,  towards 
Lucca,  lost  in  the  plain  at  the  gate  of  the  Garfagnana. 
Serravalle,  with  its  old  gateway  and  high  Rocca,  which  fell 
to  Castruccio  Castracani ;  Monsummano,  far  on  the  left,  with 
its  old  church  in  the  valley;  Montecatini,  with  its  mineral 
springs ;  Buggiano,  and  Pescia  with  its  mulberries,  where  the 
Church  of  S.  Francesco  hides  and  keeps  its  marvellous  portrait 
of  S.  Francesco — these  are  the  towns  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains  that  I  shall  pass  before  I  turn  into  the  plain 
between  the  island  hills  and  come  at  last  to  Lucca,  Lucca 
rOmbrosa,  round  whose  high  ramparts  that  have  stood  a 
thousand  sieges  now  in  whispering  ranks  there  stand  the 
cool  planes  of  the  valley,  the  shadowy  trees  that  girdle  the 
city  with  a  cintola  of  green  and  gold. 

Lucca  is  the  city  of  a  great  soldier,  of  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  Tuscan  sculptors,  and  of  Santa  Zita.  Lucca 
rOmbrosa  I  call  her,  but  she  is  the  city  of  light  too — Luce, 
light ;  it  is  the  patriotic  derivation  of  her  name.  For  One 
came  to  her  with  a  star  in  His  bosom,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem, 
that  heralded  the  sweet  dawn  which  crept  through  the 
valleys   and   filled   them  with    morning ;   so  Lucca  was   the 

404 


LUCCA  405 

first  city  in  Italy,  as  they  say,  to  receive  the  light  of  the 
gospel. 

The  foundation  of  this  city,  which  alone  of  all  the  cities  of 
Tuscany  was  to  keep  in  some  sort  her  independence  till 
Napoleon  wrested  it  from  her,  is  obscure.  She  was  not 
Etruscan,  but  possibly  a  Ligurian  settlement  that  came  into 
the  power  of  Rome  about  200  B.C.,  and  by  56  b.c.  we  have 
certain  news  of  her,  for  it  was  here  that  Caesar,  Pompeius,  and 
Croesus  formed  the  triumvirate.  Overwhelmed  by  the  disasters 
that  befell  the  Empire,  we  hear  something  of  her  in  the  sixth 
century,  when  S.  Frediano  came  from  Ireland,  from  Galway, 
and  after  a  sojourn  in  Rome  became  a  hermit  in  the  Monti 
Pisani,  till  in  565  John  iii  made  him  Bishop  of  Lucca.  It 
seems  to  have  been  about  this  time  that  Lucca  began  to  be 
of  importance,  after  the  fall  of  the  Lombard  rule  governed  by 
her  own  Uukes.  And  then  the  Bishops  of  Lucca,  those 
Bishop  Counts  who  governed  her  so  long,  had  a  jurisdiction 
which  extended  to  the  confines  of  the  Patrimony  of  St. 
Peter.  The  same  drama  no  doubt  was  played  in  Lucca 
as  in  Pisa  or  Florence,  a  struggle  betwixt  nobles  of  foreign 
descent  and  the  young  commune  of  the  Latin  population.  We 
find  Lucca  on  the  papal  side  in  1064,  but  in  1081  she  joins  the 
Empress  with  Siena  and  Ferrara ;  but  for  the  most  part  after 
Pisa  became  Ghibelline  Lucca  was  Guelph,  for  her  friends  were 
the  enemies  of  Pisa.  Thus  the  fight  goes  on,  a  fight  really 
of  self-preservation,  of  civic  liberty  as  it  were,  each  city 
prizing  its  ego  above  every  consideration  of  justice  or  unity. 

It  was  the  fourteenth  century  that  gave  Lucca  her  great 
captain,  Castruccio  Castracani,  the  hero  of  Machiavelli's 
remarkable  sketch,  the  sketch  perhaps  for  the  Prince.  It  is 
strange  that  Machiavelli  should  have  cared  to  write  of  the 
only  two  men  who  might  in  more  favourable  circumstances 
have  forged  a  kingdom  out  of  various  Republics,  Lordships, 
Duchies,  and  Marquisates  of  the  peninsula,  Castruccio  degli 
Intelminelli  and  Cesare  Borgia. 

It  seems,  to  follow  the  virile  yet  subtle  tale  of  Machiavelli, 
that  at  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century  there  was  born  out 


406    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

of  the  family  of  Castracani  one  Antonio,  who,  entering  himself 
into  Orders,  was  made  a  Canon  of  S.  Michele  in  Lucca,  and 
was  even  called  Messer  Antonio.  He  had  for  sister  a  widow 
of  Buonaccorso  Cinami,  who  at  the  death  of  her  husband 
had  come  to  live  with  him,  resolved  to  marry  no  more. 
Now  behind  the  house  where  he  lived,  Messer  Antonio, 
good  man,  had  a  vineyard,  and  it  happened  one  morning 
about  sunrise  that  Donna  Dianora  (for  that  was  the  sister's 
name)  walking  in  the  vineyard  to  gather  herbs  for  a  salad  (as 
women  frequently  do),  heard  a  rustling  under  the  leaves,  and 
turning  toward  it  she  fancied  it  cried,  and  going  towards  it  she 
saw  the  hands  and  face  of  a  child,  which,  tumbling  up  and 
down  in  the  leaves,  seemed  to  call  for  relief.  Donna  Dianora, 
partly  astonished  and  partly  afraid,  took  it  up  very  tenderly, 
carried  it  home,  washed  it,  and  having  put  it  in  clean  clothes, 
presented  it  to  Messer  Antonio.  ^^ Eccololi!"  says  she,  "and 
what  will  Messere  do  with  this  ?  "  "  Dianora,"  says  he,  with 
a  gasp,  "  Dianora  .  .  .  ! "  "  No,  it  is  not,"  says  she,  fluttering 
suddenly  with  rage,  "  and  I'll  thank  you,  Messer  Antonio,"  and 
that  she  said  for  spite,  "  I'll  thank  you  to  keep  your  lewd 
thoughts  to  yourself,"  says  she,  "and  for  the  fine  ladies,  fine 
ladies,"  says  she,  "  that  come  to  see  you  at  S.  Michele,"  and 
she  fell  to  weeping,  holding  the  child  in  her  arms.  "  I  that 
might  have  had  little  hands  {manine)  under  my  chin  many's 
the  time  if  Buonaccorso  had  not  died  so  old."  And  she  carried 
the  child  out  of  his  sight.  Then  Messer  Antonio  later,  when 
he  understood  the  case,  being  no  less  affected  with  wonder 
and  compassion  than  his  sister  before  him,  debated  with 
himself  what  to  do,  and  presently  concluded  to  bring  the  little 
fellow  up ;  for,  as  he  said,  "  I,  Antonio,  am  a  priest,  and  my 
sister  hath  no  children."  So  he  christened  the  child  Castruccio 
after  his  own  father,  and  Dianora  looked  to  him  as  carefully  as  if 
he  had  been  her  own.  Now  Castruccio's  graces  increased  with 
his  years,  and  therefore  in  his  heart  Messer  Antonio  designed 
him  for  a  priest ;  but  Dianora  would  not  have  it  so,  and 
indeed  he  showed  as  yet  but  little  inclination  to  that  kind  of 
life,  which  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  his  natural  disposition, 


LUCCA  407 

as  Dianora  said,  tending  quite  another  way.  For  though  he 
followed  his  studies,  when  he  was  scarce  fourteen  years  old 
he  began  to  run  after  the  soldiers  and  knights,  and  always  to 
be  wrestling  and  running,  and  soon  he  troubled  himself  very 
little  with  reading,  unless  it  were  such  things  as  might  instruct 
him  for  war.     And  Messer  Antonio  was  sore  afflicted. 

Now  the  great  house  in  Lucca  at  that  time  was  Guinigi, 
and  Francesco  was  then  head  of  it.  Ah !  a  handsome 
gentleman,  rich  too,  who  had  borne  arms  all  his  life  long 
under  the  Visconti  of  Milan.  With  them  he  had  fought  for 
the  Ghibellines  till  the  Lucchesi  looked  upon  him  as  the 
very  life  of  that  party.  This  Francesco  was  used  to  walk 
in  Piazza  S.  Michele,  where  one  day  he  watched  Castruccio 
playing  among  his  companions.  Seeing  his  strength  and 
confidence,  he  called  him  to  him,  and  asked  him  if  he  did  not 
prefer  a  gentleman's  family,  where  he  could  learn  to  ride  the 
great  horse  and  exercise  his  arms,  before  the  cloister  of  a 
churchman.  Guinigi  had  only  to  look  at  him  to  see  which 
way  his  heart  jumped,  so  not  long  after  he  made  a  visit  to 
Antonio  and  begged  Castruccio  of  him  in  so  pressing  and  yet 
so  civil  a  manner,  that  Antonio,  finding  he  could  not  master 
the  natural  inclinations  of  the  lad,  let  him  go. 

Often  after  that,  Dianora  and  Antonio  too,  seeing  him  ride 
by  in  attendance  on  Francesco,  would  admire  with  what 
address  he  sat  his  horse,  with  what  grace  he  managed  his 
lance,  with  what  comeliness  his  sword ;  and  indeed  scarce 
any  of  his  age  dare  meet  him  at  the  Barrieri.  He  was  about 
eighteen  years  old  when  he  made  his  first  campaign.  For 
the  Guelphs  had  driven  the  Ghibellines  out  of  Pavia,  and 
Visconti  sought  the  help  of  his  friends,  among  them  of 
Francesco  Guinigi.  Francesco  gave  Castruccio  a  company 
of  foot,  and  marched  with  him  to  help  Visconti :  and 
Castruccio  won  such  reputation  in  that  fight,  that  his  name 
galloped  through  Lombardy,  and  when  he  returned  to  Lucca 
the  whole  city  had  him  in  respect. 

Not  long  after,  Guinigi  fell  sick  ;  in  truth  he  was  about  to 
die.     Seeing,  then,  that  he  had  a  son  scarcely  thirteen  years 


4o8    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

old,  called  Pagolo,  he  gave  him  into  Castruccio's  charge, 
begging  him  to  show  the  same  generosity  to  his  son  as  he 
had  received  from  him.     And  all  this  Castruccio  promised. 

Now  the  head  of  the  Guelph  party  in  Lucca  was  a  certain 
Signor  Giorgio  Opizi,  who  hoped  when  Francesco  was  dead 
to  get  the  city  into  his  power,  so  that  when  he  saw  Castruccio 
so  well  thought  of  and  so  strong,  he  began  to  speak  secretly 
of  a  new  tyranny,  by  which  he  meant  the  growing  favour  of 
Castruccio.  Pisa  at  this  time  was  under  the  government 
of  Uguccione  da  Faggiuola  of  Arezzo,  whom  the  Pisans  had 
chosen  as  their  captain,  but  who  had  made  himself  their 
lord.  He  had  befriended  certain  Ghibellines  banished  from 
Lucca,  and  therefore  Castruccio  entered  into  secret  treaty 
with  him  in  order  that  these  exiles  might  be  restored.  So  he 
furnished  in  Lucca  the  Tower  of  Honour,  which  was  in  his 
charge,  in  case  he  might  have  to  defend  it.  He  met  Uguccione 
on  the  night  appointed,  between  Lucca  and  the  hills  towards 
Pisa,  and,  agreeing  with  him,  Uguccione  marched  back  on 
the  city  to  St.  Peter's  Gate  and  set  fire  to  it,  while  he  attacked 
another  on  the  other  side  of  the  town.  Meanwhile,  his 
friends  within  the  city  ran  about  in  the  night  calling  To  your 
arms,  and  filled  the  streets  with  confusion ;  so  that  Uguccione 
easily  entered,  and,  having  seized  the  city,  caused  all  the 
Opizi  to  be  murdered  as  well  as  all  the  Guelphs  he  could  find. 
Nor  did  he  stop  there,  for  he  exiled  one  hundred  of  the  best 
families,  who,  miserables  exiles,  now  fled  to  Florence  and 
Pistoja.  The  Florentines,  seeing  the  Guelph  power  tottering, 
put  an  army  in  the  field,  and  met  the  Pisans  and  Lucchese 
at  Montecatini.  There  followed  the  memorable  battle  called 
after  that  place,  in  which  the  Florentines  lost  some  ten 
thousand  men.^  This  was  in  131 5.  Now  whether,  as  Villani 
says,  Uguccione  won  that  battle,  or,  as  Machiavelli  asserts, 
was  sick,  so  that  the  honour  fell  to  Castruccio,  there  was 
already  of  necessity  much  jealousy  between  the  two  captains ; 
for  certainly  Castruccio  had  not  called  on  Uguccione  to  make 
him  Lord  of  Lucca,  nor  had  Uguccione  obeyed  that  call  for 
*  See  p.  94  et  se(j. 


LUCCA  409 

mere  love  of  Castruccio.  He  therefore,  being  returned  to 
Pisa,  sent  his  son  Nerli  to  seize  Lucca  and  kill  Castruccio, 
but  the  lad  bungled  it :  when  Uguccione  himself  set  out  to 
repair  this,  he  found  the  city  ready,  demanding  the  release  of 
Castruccio,  whom  Nerli  had  imprisoned.  Seeing,  then,  the 
mood  of  the  city,  and  that  he  had  but  four  hundred  horse 
with  him,  he  was  compelled  to  agree  to  this.  And  at  once 
Castruccio,  who  was  in'  no  wise  daunted,  assembled  his 
friends  and  flung  Uguccione  out  of  Lucca.  Meantime  the 
Pisans  had  themselves  revolted,  so  that  this  tyrant  was 
compelled  to  retire  into  Lombardy. 

It  was  now  that  Castruccio  saw  his  opportunity.  He  got 
himself  chosen  Captain-General  of  all  the  Lucchese  forces 
for  a  twelvemonth,  and  began  to  reduce  the  surrounding 
places  near  and  far  which  had  come  under  the  rule  of 
Uguccione.  The  first  of  these  to  be  attacked  was  Sarzana  in 
Lunigiana.  But  first  he  agreed  with  Pisa,  who  in  hatred  of 
Uguccione  sent  him  men  and  stores.  Sarzana  proved  very 
strong,  so  that  before  he  won  it  he  was  compelled  to  build  a 
fortress  beyond  the  walls,  which  we  may  see  to  this  day.  Thus 
Sarzana  was  taken,  and  later  Massa,  Carrara,  and  Avenza 
easily  enough,  until  the  whole  of  Lunigiana  was  in  his  power, 
even  Fordinovo,  and  later  Remoli,  and  that  was  to  secure  his 
way  to  Lombardy.  Then  he  returned  to  Lucca,  and  was 
received  with  every  sort  of  joy. 

About  this  time  Frederick  of  Bavaria  came  into  Italy 
seeking  the  Imperial  Crown,  and  Castruccio  went  to  meet  him 
with  500  horse,  leaving  Pagolo  Guinigi  his  Deputy  in  Lucca. 
Frederick  received  him  with  much  kindness,  making  him  Lord 
of  Pisa  and  his  vicar  in  all  Tuscany :  and  thus  Castruccio 
became  the  head  of  the  Ghibelline  party  both  in  Lombardy 
and  Tuscany.  But  Castruccio's  aim  went  higher  yet,  for  he 
hoped  not  only  to  be  vicar  but  master  indeed  of  Tuscany, 
and  to  this  end  he  made  a  league  with  Matteo  Visconti  of 
Milan ;  and  seeing  that  Lucca  had  five  gates,  he  divided  the 
country  into  five  parts,  and  to  every  part  he  set  a  captain,  so 
that    presently   he   could   march   with    20,000   men   beside 


410    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

the  Pisans.  Now  the  Florentines  were  already  busy  in 
Lombardy  against  Visconti,  who  besought  Castruccio  to 
make  a  diversion.  This  he  readily  did,  taking  Fucecchio  and 
S.  Miniato  al  Tedesco.  Then  hearing  of  trouble  in  Lucca, 
he  returned  and  imprisoned  the  Poggi,  who  had  risen  against 
him ;  an  old  and  notable  family,  but  he  spared  them  not. 
Meanwhile  Florence  retook  S.  Miniato ;  and  Castruccio,  not 
caring  to  fight  while  he  was  insecure  at  home,  made  a  truce 
carefully  enough,  that  lasted  two  years. 

He  now  set  himself  first  to  make  Lucca  secure,  and  for  this 
he  built  a  fortress  in  the  city ;  and  then  to  possess  himself  of 
Pistoja — for  he  even  thought  thereby  to  gain  a  foothold  in 
Florence  herself — and  for  this  he  entered  into  correspondence 
secretly  with  both  Neri  and  Bianchi  there.  These  two 
factions  did  not  hesitate  to  use  the  enemy  of  their  city  to  help 
their  ambitions,  so  that  while  the  Bianchi  expected  him  at  one 
gate,  the  Neri  waited  at  the  other,  the  one  receiving  Guinigi 
and  the  other  Castruccio  himself  with  their  men  into  the  city. 
Not  content  with  thus  winning  Pistoja,  he  thought  to  control 
the  city  of  Rome  also,  which  he  did  in  the  name  of  the 
Emperor,  the  Pope  being  in  Avignon ;  and  this  done,  he  went 
through  the  city  with  two  devices  embroidered  on  his  coat : 
the  one  before  read,  "  He  is  as  pleaseth  God,"  and  that 
behind,  "  And  shall  be  what  God  will  have  him."  Now  the 
Florentines  were  furious  at  the  cunning  breach  of  their  truce 
by  which  Castruccio  had  got  himself  Pistoja  ;  so,  while  he 
was  in  Rome,  they  determined  to  capture  the  place :  which 
they  did  one  night  by  a  ruse,  destroying  all  Castruccio's  party. 
And  when  he  heard  it,  Castruccio  came  north  in  great  anger. 
But  at  first  the  Florentines  were  too  quick  for  him  :  they  got 
together  all  of  the  Guelph  league,  and  before  Castruccio  was 
back  again,  held  Val  dei  Nievola.  Seeing  their  greatness — for 
they  were  40,000  in  number,  while  he  on  his  return  could 
muster  but  1 2,000  men  at  most — he  would  not  meet  them  in 
the  plain,  nor  in  the  Val  di  Pescia,  but  resolved  to  draw  that 
great  army  into  the  narrow  ways  of  Serravalle,  where  he  could 
deal  with  them.     Now  Serravalle  is  a  Rocca  not  on  the  road 


LUCCA  411 

but  on  the  hillside  above,  and  the  way  down  into  the  valley 
is  rather  strait  than  steep  till  you  come  to  the  place  where  the 
waters  divide :  so  strait  that  twenty  men  abreast  take  up  all 
the  way.  That  Rocca  belonged  to  a  German  lord  called 
Manfredi,  whose  throat  Castruccio  cheerfully  cut.  The 
Florentines,  who  were  eager  not  only  to  hold  all  Val  di 
Nievola  but  to  carry  the  war  away  from  Pistoja  towards 
Lucca,  knew  nothing  of  Serravalle  having  fallen  to  Castruccio, 
so  on  they  came  in  haste,  and  encamped  above  it,  hoping  to 
pass  the  straits  next  day.  There  Castruccio  fell  upon  them 
about  midnight,  putting  all  to  confusion.  Horse  and  foot  fell 
foul  upon  one  another,  and  both  upon  the  baggage.  There 
was  no  way  left  for  them  but  to  run,  which  they  did  helter- 
skelter  in  the  plain  of  Pistoja,  where  each  man  shifted  for 
himself.  But  Castruccio  followed  them  even  to  Peretola  at 
the  gates  of  Florence,  carrying  Pistoja  and  Prato  on  the  way ; 
there  he  coined  money  under  their  walls,^  while  his  soldiers 
insulted  over  the  conquered ;  and  to  make  his  triumph  more 
remarkable,  nothing  would  serve  the  turn  but  naked  women 
must  run  Corsi  on  horseback  under  the  very  walls  of  the  city. 
And  to  deliver  their  city  from  Castruccio,  the  Florentines  were 
compelled  to  send  to  the  King  of  Naples,  and  to  pay  him 
annual  tribute. 

But  Castruccio's  business  was  always  spoiled  by  revolt,  and 
this  time  it  was  Pistoja  which  rose,  and  later  Pisa.  Then  the 
Guelphs  raised  a  great  army — 30,000  foot  and  10,000  horse  it 
was — and  after  a  little  while  Castruccio  was  busy  with  Pisa ; 
they  seized  Lastra,  Signa,  Montelupo,  Empoli,  and  laid  siege  to 
S.  Miniato :  this  in  May  1328.  Castruccio,  in  no  wise 
discomposed,  thought  at  last  Tuscany  was  in  his  grasp ; 
therefore  he  went  to  Fucecchio  and  entrenched  himself  with 
20,000  foot  and  4000  horse,  leaving  5000  foot  in  Pisa  with 
Guinigi.  Fucecchio  is  a  walled  city  on  the  other  side  of  Amo 
opposite  S.  Miniato.  There  Castruccio  waited ;  nor  could  he 
have  chosen  better,  for  the  Florentines  could  not  attack  him 

'  This  coining  of  money  was  as  much  as  to  prove  that  he  had  a  sort  of 
sovereign  right  over  their  territory. 


412    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

without  fording  the  river  from  S.  Miniato,  which  they  had 
taken,  and  dividing  their  forces.  This  they  were  compelled  to 
do,  and  Castruccio  fell  upon  and  beat  them,  leaving  some 
20,000  of  them  dead  in  the  field,  while  he  lost  but  fifteen 
hundred.  Nevertheless,  that  proved  to  be  his  last  fight,  for 
death  found  him  at  the  top  of  his  fortune ;  for,  riding  into 
Fucecchio  after  the  battle,  he  waited  a-horseback  to  greet  his 
men  at  the  great  gate  of  the  place  which  is  still  called  after 
him.  Heated  as  he  was  with  fight,  it  was  the  evening  wind 
that  slew  him ;  for  he  fell  into  an  ague,  and,  neglecting  it, 
believing  himself  sufficiently  hardened,  it  presently  killed  him, 
and  Pagolo  Guinigi  ruled  in  his  stead,  but  without  his  fortune. 
Following  that  strangely  successful  career,  that  for  Macchia- 
velli  at  any  rate  seemed  like  a  promise  of  the  Deliverer  that 
was  to  come,  the  first  of  Modern  Historians  gives  us  many 
of  Castruccio's  sayings  set  down  at  haphazard,  which  bring 
the  man  vividly  before  us.  Thus  when  a  friend  of  his,  seeing 
him  engaged  in  an  amour  with  a  very  pretty  lass,  blamed 
him  that  he  suffered  himself  to  be  so  taken  by  a  woman — 
"  You  are  deceived,  signore,"  says  Castruccio,  "  she  is  taken 
by  me."  Another  desiring  a  favour  of  him  with  a  thousand 
impertinent  and  superfluous  words — "  Hark  you,  friend,"  says 
Castruccio,  "when  you  would  have  anything  of  me,  for  the 
future  send  another  man  to  ask  it."  Something  of  his  dream 
of  dominion  may  be  found  in  that  saying  of  his  when  one 
asked  him,  seeing  his  ambition,  how  Caesar  died,  and  he 
answered,  "  Would  I  might  die  like  him  ! "  Blamed  for  his 
severity,  perhaps  over  the  Poggi  affair,  one  said  to  him  that 
he  dealt  severely  with  an  old  friend — "  No,"  says  he,  "  you 
are  mistaken ;  it  was  with  a  new  foe."  Something  of  his  love 
for  Uguccione — who  certainly  hated  him,  but  whom  he  held 
in  great  veneration — may  be  found  in  his  answer  to  that  man 
who  asked  him  if  for  the  salvation  of  his  soul  he  never 
thought  to  turn  monk.  "  No,"  says  he,  "  for  to  me  it  will 
be  strange  if  Fra  Nazarene  should  go  to  Paradise  and 
Ugguccione  da  Faggiuola  to  Hell."  And  Macchiavelli  says 
that  what  was  most  remarkable  was  that,  "  having  equalled 


LUCCA  413 

the  great  actions  of  Scipio  and  Philip,  the  father  of  Alexancfer, 
he  died  as  they  did,  in  the  forty-fourth  year  of  his  age,  and 
doubtless  he  would  have  surpassed  them  both  had  he  found 
as  favourable  dispositions  at  Lucca  as  one  of  them  did  in 
Macedon  and  the  other  in  Rome,"  Just  there  we  seem  to 
find  the  desire  of  the  sixteenth  century  for  unity  that  found 
expression  in  the  deeds  of  Cesare  Borgia,  the  Discorsi  of 
Niccolb  Macchiavelli. 

The  rest  of  the  history  of  Lucca  is  a  sort  of  unhappy 
silence,  out  of  which  from  time  to  time  rise  the  cry  of 
Burlamacchi,  a  fool,  yes,  but  a  hero,  the  howling  of  the 
traitors,  the  whisper  of  feeble  conspiracies,  the  purr  of  an 
ignoble  prosperity,  till  in  1805  Napoleon  came  and  made 
her  his  prey. 

II 

But  to-day  Lucca  is  like  a  shadowy  pool  hidden  behind 
the  Pisan  hills,  like  a  forgotten  oasis  in  the  great  plain  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountains,  a  pallid  autumn  rose,  smiling  subtly 
among  the  olives  that  girdle  her  round  about  with  a  sad 
garland  of  green,  a  cincture  of  silver,  a  tossing  sea  of  gardens. 
However  you  come  to  her,  you  must  pass  through  those 
delicate  ways,  where  always  the  olives  whisper  together,  and 
their  million  leaves,  that  do  not  mark  the  seasons,  flutter  one 
by  one  to  the  ground ;  where  the  cicale  die  in  the  midst  of 
their  song,  and  the  flowers  of  Tuscany  scatter  the  shade  with 
the  colours  of  their  beauty.  In  the  midst  of  this  half-real 
world,  so  languidly  joyful,  in  which  the  sky  counts  for  so 
much,  it  is  always  with  surprise  you  come  upon  the  tremen- 
dous perfect  walls  of  this  city — walls  planted  all  round  with 
plane-trees,  so  that  Lucca  herself  is  hidden  by  her  crown — 
a  crown  that  changes  as  the  year  changes,  mourning  all  the 
winter  long,  but  in  spring  is  set  with  living  emeralds,  a 
thousand  and  a  thousand  points  of  green  fire  that  burst  into 
summer's  own  coronet  of  flame-like  leaves,  that  fades  at  last 
into  the  dead  and  sumptuous  gold  of  autumn. 

It  is  by  Porta  S.  Pietro  that  we  enter  Lucca,  coming  by 


414    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

rail  from  Pistoja,  and  from  Pisa  too,  then  crossing  La 
Madonnina  and  Corso  Garibaldi  by  Via  Nazionale,  we  come 
almost  at  once  into  Piazza  Giglio,  where  the  old  Palazzo 
Amolfi  stands — a  building  of  the  sixteenth  century  that  is 
now  Albergo  Universo.  Thence  by  the  Via  del  Duomo, 
past  S.  Giovanni,  we  enter  the  Piazza  S.  Martino,  that  silent, 
empty  square  before  the  Duomo.  The  little  Church  of  S. 
Giovanni  that  we  pass  on  the  way  is  the  old  cathedral, 
standing  on  the  site  of  a  pagan  temple,  and  rebuilt  by  S. 
Frediano  in  573,  after  the  Lombards  had  destroyed  the  first 
Christian  building.  The  present  church  dates,  in  part  at 
least,  from  the  eleventh  century,  and  the  three  white  pillars 
of  the  nave  are  from  the  Roman  building;  but  the  real 
interest  of  the  church  lies  in  its  Baptistery — Lombard  work 
dug  out  of  the  earth  which  had  covered  it,  the  floor  set 
in  a  waved  pattern  of  black  and  white  marble,  while  in  the 
midst  is  the  great  square  font  in  which  the  people  of  Lucca 
were  immersed  for  baptism.  Little  else  remains  of  interest 
in  this  the  most  ancient  church  in  Lucca — only  a  fresco  of 
Madonna  with  St.  Nicholas  and  others,  a  fifteenth-century  work 
in  the  north  transept,  and  a  beautiful  window  of  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century  in  the  Baptistery  itself. 

All  that  is  best  in  Lucca,  all  that  is  sweetest  and  most 
naive,  may  be  found  in  the  beautiful  Duomo,  which  Pope 
Alexander  11  consecrated  in  1070, — Pope  Alexander  11,  who 
had  once  been  Bishop  of  Lucca.  Non  i  finito^  the  sacristan, 
himself  one  of  the  most  delightful  and  simple  souls  in  this 
little  forgotten  city,  will  tell  you — it  is  not  finished ;  and 
indeed,  the  alteration  that  was  made  in  the  church  in  the 
early  part  of  the  fourteenth  century — when  the  nave  was 
lengthened  and  the  roof  raised — was  never  completed ;  and 
you  may  still  see  where,  through  so  many  centuries,  that 
which  was  so  well  begun  has  awaited  a  second  S.  Frediano. 

It  is,  however,  the  fa9ade  that  takes  you  at  once  by  its 
ancient  smiling  aspect,  its  three  great  unequal  arches,  over 
which,  in  three  tiers,  various  with  beautiful  columns,  rise  the 
open  galleries  we  have  so  loved  at  Pisa.     Built,  as  it  is  said, 


LUCCA  415 

in  1204  by  Giudetto,  much  work  remains  in  that  beautiful 
frontispiece  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  churches  in  Italy 
that  is  far  older  than  itself:  the  statue  of  S.  Martino,  the 
patron,  for  instance ;  that  labyrinth,  too,  on  the  great  pier 
to  the  right ;  and  perhaps  the  acts  of  St.  Martin  carved  be- 
tween the  doors,  and  below  them  three  reliefs  of  the  months, 
where  in  January  you  see  man  sitting  beside  the  fire;  in 
Pebruary,  as  is  most  right,  fishing  in  the  Serchio ;  in  March, 
wisely  pruning  his  trees ;  in  April,  sowing  his  seed ;  in  May, 
plucking  the  spring  flowers ;  in  June,  cutting  the  com ;  in 
July,  beating  it  out  with  the  flail — the  flail  that  is  used  to-day 
in  every  country  place  in  Tuscany ;  in  August,  plucking  the 
fruits ;  in  September,  treading  the  wine-press ;  in  October, 
storing  the  wine  ;  in  November,  ploughing  ;  and  in  December, 
for  the  festa  killing  a  pig.  Over  the  door  to  the  left  is  the 
earliest  work,  as  it  is  said,  of  Nicolb  Pisano,  and  beneath  it 
an  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  in  which  some  have  found  the 
hand  of  Giovanni,  his  son ;  while  above  the  great  door  itself 
Our  Lord  is  in  glory,  with  the  Twelve  Apostles  beneath,  and 
Madonna  herself  in  the  midst.  Not  far  away,  to  the  north 
beside  the  church,  the  rosy  Campanile  towers  over  Lucca, 
calling  city  and  country  too,  to  pray  at  dawn  and  at  noon 
and  at  evening. 

Within,  the  church  is  of  a  great  and  simple  beauty;  in 
the  form  of  a  Latin  cross,  divided  into  three  naves  by  columns 
supporting  round  arches,  over  which  the  triforium  passes, 
across  the  transepts,  lighted  by  beautiful  Gothic  windows : 
the  glass  is  certainly  dreadful,  but  far  away  in  the  choir  the 
windows  are  filled  still  with  the  work  of  the  old  masters. 

The  most  beautiful  and  the  most  wonderful  treasure  that  the 
church  holds,  that  Lucca  itself  can  boast  of,  is  the  great  tomb 
in  the  north  transept,  carved  to  hold  for  ever  the  beautiful 
Maria  del  Caretto,  the  wife  of  Paolo  Guinigi,  whose  tower 
still  blossoms  in  the  spring,  since  she  has  sat  there.  It  is  the 
everlasting  work  of  Jacopo  della  Quercia,  the  Sienese.  On 
her  bed  of  marble  the  young  Maria  lies,  like  a  lily  fallen  on  a 
rock  of  marble,  and  in  her  face  is  the  sweet  gravity  of  all  the 


4i6    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

springs  that  have  gone  by,  and  in  her  hand  the  melody  of  all 
the  songs  that  have  been  sung ;  her  mouth  seems  about  to 
speak  some  lovely  affirmation,  and  her  body  is  a  tower  of 
ivory.  Can  you  wonder  that  the  sun  lingers  here  softly, 
softly,  as  it  steps  westward,  or  that  night  creeps  over  her, 
kissing  her  from  head  to  foot  slowly  like  a  lover  ?  Who  was 
the  vandal  who  robbed  so  great  and  noble  a  thing  as  this  of 
the  relief  of  dancing  children  which  was  found  in  the  Bargello 
in  1829,  and  returned  here  only  in  1887. 

It  is,  however,  the  work  of  another  man,  a  Lucchese  too, 
that  fills  the  Duomo  and  Lucca  itself  with  a  sort  of  lyric 
sweetness  in  the  delicate  and  almost  fragile  sculpture  of 
Matteo  Civitali.  In  the  south  transept  he  has  carved  the 
monument  to  Pietro  da  Noceto,  the  pupil  of  Pope  Nicholas 
v,  and  close  by  the  tomb  of  Domenico  Bertini,  his  patron, 
while  in  the  Cappella  del  Sacramento  are  two  angels  from  his 
hands,  kneeling  on  either  side  the  tabernacle.  It  was  he 
who  built  the  marble  parapet,  all  of  red  and  white,  round  the 
choir,  the  pulpit,  and  the  Tempietto  in  the  nave,  gilded  and 
covered  with  ornaments  to  hold  the  Volto  Santo,  setting 
there  the  beautiful  statue  of  St.  Sebastian,  which  we  look  at 
to-day  with  joy  when  turning  away  from  that  strange  and  mar- 
vellous shrine  of  the  holy  face  of  Jesus  which  we  no  longer 
care  to  see.  Yet  one  might  think  that  crucifix  strange  and 
curious  enough  for  a  pilgrimage,  beautiful,  too,  as  it  is,  with 
the  lost  beauty  of  an  art  as  subtle  and  lovely  as  the  work  of 
the  Japanese.  "  It  is  really,"  says  Murray,  "  a  work  of  the 
eleventh  century  " ;  but  the  Lucchesi  will  not  have  it  so,  for 
they  tell  you  that  it  was  carved  at  the  bidding  of  an  angel  by 
Nicodemus,  and  that  he,  unable  to  finish  his  work,  since  his 
memory  was  too  full  of  the  wonder  of  the  reality,  returning  to 
it  one  day,  perhaps  to  try  again,  found  it  miraculously  perfect 
At  his  death  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  certain  holy  men, 
who,  to  escape  from  the  fury  of  the  iconolasts,  hid  it,  till  in 
782  a  Piedmontese  bishop  found  it  by  means  of  a  vision,  and 
put  it  aboard  ship  and  abandoned  it  to  the  sea.  So  the  tale 
runs.     Cast  hither  and  thither  in  the  waves,  the  ship  at  last 


LUCCA  417 

came  ashore  at  Luna,  where  the  Bishop  of  Lucca  was  staying 
in  the  summer  heat.  So,  led  by  God,  he  would  have  borne 
it  to  Lucca ;  but  the  people  of  Luna,  who  had  heard  of  its 
sanctity,  objecting,  it  was  placed  in  a  cart  drawn  by  two  white 
oxen,  and,  as  it  had  been  abandoned  to  the  sea,  so  now  it  was 
given  to  the  world.  But  the  oxen,  who  in  fact  came  from 
the  fields  of  Lucca,  returned  thither,  to  the  disgust  of  the 
people  of  Luna,  and  to  the  great  and  holy  joy  of  the  Bishop 
of  Lucca,  as  we  may  imagine.  Such  is  the  tale ;  but  the 
treasure  itself  is  a  crucifix  of  cedar  wood  of  a  real  and 
strange  beauty.  Whether  it  be  European  work  or  Asiatic  I 
know  not,  nor  does  it  matter  much,  since  it  is  beautiful. 
Dante,  who  spent  some  time  in  Lucca,  and  there  loved  the 
gentle  Gentucca,  whose  name  so  fortunately  chimed  with  that 
of  the  city,  speaks  of  the  Volto  Santo  in  Inferno,  xxi  48, 
when  in  the  eighth  circle  of  Hell,  over  the  lake  of  boiling 
pitch,  the  devils  cry — 

"...  Qui  non  ha  luc^o  il  Santo  Volto: 
Qui  si  nuota  altrimenti  che  nel  Serchio." 

Matteo  Civitali,  the  one  artist  of  importance  that  Lucca 
produced,  was  bom  in  1435.  ^^  remains  really  the  one 
artist,  not  of  the  territory  of  Florence,  who  has  worked  in  the 
manner  of  the  fifteenth-century  sculptors  of  that  city.  His 
work  is  everywhere  in  Lucca, — here  in  the  Duomo,  in  S. 
Romano,  in  S.  Michele,  in  S.  Frediano,  and  in  the  Museo  in 
Palazzo  Mansi.  Certainly  without  the  strength,  the  construc- 
tive ability  that  sustains  even  the  most  delicate  work  of  the 
Florentines,  he  has  yet  a  certain  flower-like  beauty,  a  beauty 
that  seems  ever  about  to  pass  away,  to  share  its  life  with  the 
sunlight  that  ebbs  so  swiftly  out  of  the  great  churches  where 
it  is ;  and  concerned  as  it  is  for  the  most  part  with  the  tomb, 
to  rob  death  itself  of  a  sort  of  immortality,  to  suggest  in  some 
faint  and  subtle  way  that  death  itself  will  pass  away  and  be 
lost,  as  the  sun  is  lost  at  evening  in  the  strength  of  the  sea. 
The  sentiment  that  his  work  conveys  to  us  of  a  beauty  fragile 
at  best,  and  rather  exquisite  than  splendid,  lacks,  perhaps,  a 
27 


41 8     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

certain  originality  and  even  freshness ;  yet  it  preserves  very 
happily  just  the  beauty  of  flowers,  of  the  flowers  that  grow 
everywhere  about  his  home  in  the  slowly  closing  valleys,  the 
tender  hills  that  lead  to  Castelnuovo,  of  the  Garfagnana,  to 
Barga  above  the  Bagni  di  Lucca.  More  and  more  as  you 
linger  in  Lucca  it  is  his  work  you  seek  out,  caught  by  its 
sweetness,  its  delicate  and  melancholy  joy,  its  strangeness  too, 
as  though  he  had  desired  to  express  some  long  thought-out, 
recondite  beauty,  and,  half  afraid  to  express  himself  after  all, 
had  let  his  thoughts  pass  over  the  marble  as  the  wind  passes 
over  the  sand  between  the  Pineta  and  the  sea.  It  is  a 
beauty  gone  while  we  try  to  apprehend  it  that  we  find  in 
his  work,  and  though  at  last  we  may  tire  of  this  wayward 
and  delicate  spirit,  while  we  shall  ever  return  with  new  joy  to 
the  great  and  noble  figure  of  the  young  Ilaria  del  Caretto  or 
to  the  serene  Madonna  of  Ghirlandajo,  hidden  in  the  Sacristy, 
yet  we  shall  find  ourselves  seeking  for  the  work  of  Matteo 
Civitali  as  for  the  first  violets  of  the  spring,  without  a  thought 
of  the  beauty  that  belongs  to  the  roses  that  lord  it  all  the 
summer  long. 

It  is  a  Madonna  of  Civitali  that  greets  you  at  the  comer 
of  the  most  characteristic  church  of  Lucca,  S.  Michele. 
There,  under  the  great  bronze  S.  Michele,  whose  wings  seem 
to  brood  over  the  city,  you  come  upon  that  strange  fantastic 
and  yet  beautiful  facade  which  Giudetto  built  in  1188.  Just 
Pisan  work  you  think,  but  lacking  a  certain  simplicity  and 
sincerity  even,  that  you  find  certainly  in  the  Duomo.  But  if 
it  be  true  that  this  fagade  was  built  in  1188,  and  that  the 
fagade  of  the  Duomo  of  Pisa  was  built  in  1250,  and  even  that 
of  S.  Paolo  a  Ripa  d'Arno  there,  in  11 94,  Giudetto's  work 
here  in  Lucca  is  the  older,  and  the  Pisan  master  has  made  but 
a  difficult  simplification,  perhaps,  of  this  very  work.  A  difficult 
simplification !  —  simplicity  being  really  the  most  difficult 
achievement  in  any  art,  so  that  though  it  seem  so  easy  it 
is  really  hard  to  win.  Giudetto  seems  to  have  built  here 
at  S.  Michele  as  a  sort  of  trial  for  the  Duomo,  which  is 
already  less   like  an   apparition.     And   if  the  fagade  of  S. 


LUCCA  419 

Michele  has  not  the  strength  or  the  naturalness  of  that,  lead- 
ing as  it  does  to  nothing  but  poverty  in  the  midst  of  which 
still  abides  a  mutilated  work  by  a  great  Florentine,  Fra 
Lippo  Lippi,  it  is  because  Giudetto  has  gradually  won  to  that 
difficult  simplicity  from  such  a  strange  and  fantastic  dream 
as  this. 

It  is  quite  another  sort  of  beauty  we  see  when,  passing 
through  the  deserted,  quiet  streets,  we  come  to  S.  Frediano, 
just  within  the  Porta  S.  Maria,  on  the  north  side  of  the  city. 
Begun  by  Perharit,  the  Lombard,  in  671,  with  the  stones  of 
the  amphitheatre,  whose  ruins  are  still  to  be  seen  hard  by,  it 
stood  without  the  city  till  the  great  wall  was  built  in  the 
twelfth  century,  and  the  apse  was  built  where  formerly  the 
great  door  had  stood,  and  the  marvellously  impressive  facade 
took  the  place  of  the  old  apse.  Ruined  though  it  be  by 
time  and  restoration,  that  mosaic  of  Our  Lord  amid  the 
Apostles  and  Angels  still  surprises  us  with  a  sudden  glory, 
while  the  Campanile  that  rises  still  where  of  old  the  door  stood 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  Italy.  Within,  the  church  has 
suffered  too  from  change  and  restoration.  Once  of  basilical 
form,  it  is  now  spoiled  by  the  chapels  that  thrust  themselves 
into  the  nave,  but  cannot  altogether  hide  the  nobility  of  those 
ancient  pillars  or  the  simplicity  of  the  roof.  A  few  beautiful 
ancient  things  may  still  be  found  there.  The  font,  for  in- 
stance, with  its  rude  sculptures,  that  has  been  forsaken  for  a 
later  work  by  Niccblo  Civitali,  the  nephew  of  Matteo ;  the 
Assumption,  carved  in  wood  by  that  master  behind  the  pulpit ; 
the  lovely  reliefs  of  Madonna  and  Child  with  Saints,  by  Jacopo 
della  Querca,  in  the  Cappella  del  Sacramento ;  or  the  great 
stone  which,  as  it  is  said,  S.  Frediano,  that  Irishman,  lifted 
into  a  cart. 

But  it  is  not  of  S.  Frediano  we  think  in  this  dark  and 
splendid  place,  though  the  stone  of  his  miracle  lies  before 
us,  but  of  little  S.  Zita,  patron  of  housemaids,  little  S.  Zita 
of  Lucca,  born  in  1211.  "Anziani  di  Santa  Zita,"  the  devil 
calls  the  elders  of  Lucca  in  the  eighth  circle  of  Hell ;  but 
in  her  day,  indeed,  she  had  no  such   fame  as  that.      She 


420    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

was  born  at  Montesegradi,  a  village  of  the  Lucchese,  and  was 
put  to  service  at  twelve  years  of  age,  in  the  family  of  the 
Fantinelli,  whose  house  was  close  to  this  church,  where  now 
she  has  a  chapel  to  herself  at  the  west  end  of  the  south  aisle, 
with  a  fine  Annunciation  of  the  Robbia.  To  think  of  it ! — but 
in  those  days  it  was  different ;  it  would  puzzle  Our  Lord  to  find 
a  S.  Zita  among  our  housemaids  of  to-day.  For  hear  and 
consider  well  the  virtues  of  this  pearl  above  price,  whose 
daughters,  alas !  are  so  sadly  to  seek  while  she  dusts  the 
Apostles'  chairs  in  heaven.  She  was  persuaded  that  labour 
was  according  to  the  will  of  God,  nor  did  she  ever  harbour 
any  complaint  under  contradictions,  poverty,  hardships ;  still 
less  did  she  ever  entertain  the  least  idle,  inordinate,  or 
worldly  desire  !  She  blessed  ^God  for  placing  her  in  a  station 
where  she  was  ever  busy,  and  where  she  must  perpetually 
submit  her  will  to  that  of  others.  "She  was  even  very 
sensible  of  the  advantages  of  her  state,  which  afforded  all 
necessaries  of  life  without  engaging  her  in  anxious  cares, 
.  .  .  she  obeyed  her  master  and  mistress  in  all  things,  .  .  . 
she  rose  always  hours  before  the  rest  of  the  family,  .  .  .  she 
took  care  to  hear  Mass  every  morning  before  she  was  called 
upon  by  the  duties  of  her  station,  in  which  she  employed  the 
whole  day  with  such  diligence  and  fidelity  that  she  seemed  to 
be  carried  to  them  on  wings,  and  studied  to  anticipate  them  ! " 
Is  it  any  wonder  her  fellow-servants  hated  her,  called  her 
modesty  simplicity,  her  want  of  spirit  servility?  Ah,  we 
know  that  spirit,  we  know  that  pride,  S.  Zita,  and  for  those 
wings  that  bore  you,  for  that  thoughtfulness  and  care,  S.  Zita, 
we  should  be  willing  to  pay  you  quite  an  inordinate  wage ! 
Nor  would  your  mistress  to-day  be  prepossessed  against  you  as 
yours  was,  neither  would  your  master  be  "passionate,"  and 
he  would  see  you,  S.  Zita,  without  *'  transports  of  rage."  Your 
biographer  tells  us  that  it  is  not  to  be  conceived  how  much 
you  had  continually  to  suffer  in  that  situation.  Unjustly 
despised,  overburdened,  reviled,  and  often  beaten,  you  never 
repined  nor  lost  patience,  but  always  preserved  the  same 
sweetness  in  your  countenance,  and  abated  nothing  of  your 


LUCCA  421 

application  to  your  duties.  Moreover,  you  were  willing  to 
respect  your  fellow-servants  as  your  superiors.  And  if  you 
were  sent  on  a  commission  a  mile  or  two,  in  the  greatest 
storms,  you  set  out  without  delay,  executed  your  business 
punctually,  and  returned  often  almost  drowned,  without  show- 
ing any  sign  of  murmuring.  And  at  last,  S.  Zita,  they  found 
you  out,  they  began  to  treat  you  better,  they  even  thought  so 
well  of  you  that  a  single  word  from  you  would  often  suffice  to 
check  the  greatest  transports  of  your  master's  rage ;  and  you 
would  cast  yourself  at  the  feet  of  that  terrific  man,  to  appease 
him  in  favour  of  others.  And  all  these  and  more  were  your 
virgin  virtues,  lost,  gone,  forgotten  out  of  mind,  by  a  world 
that  dreams  of  no  heavenly  housemaid  save  in  Lucca  where 
you  lived,  and  where  still  keep  your  April  festa,  and  lay  their 
nosegays  on  your  grave. 

So  I  passed  in  Lucca  from  church  to  church,  finding  here 
the  body  of  a  little  saint,  there  the  tomb  of  a  soldier,  or  the 
monument  of  some  dear  dead  woman.  In  S.  Francesco,  that 
desecrated  great  mausoleum  that  lies  at  the  end  of  the  Via 
di  S.  Francesco  not  far  from  the  garden  tower  of  Paolo  Guinigi, 
I  came  upon  the  humble  grave  of  Castruccio  Castracani.  In 
S.  Romano,  at  the  other  end  of  the  city  behind  the  Palazzo 
Provinciale,  it  is  the  shrine  of  that  S.  Romano  who  was  the 
gaoler  of  S.  Lorenzo,  I  found  a  tomb  with  the  delicate  flower- 
like body  of  the  murdered  saint  carved  there  in  gilded 
alabaster  by  Matteo  Civitali. 

It  is  chiefly  Civitali's  work  you  seek  in  the  Museo  in 
Palazzo  Provinciale,  for,  fine  as  the  work  of  Bartolommeo 
is  in  two  pictures  to  be  found  there,  it  is  something  more 
of  the  country  than  that,  you  are  to  come  Lucca. 
There,  in  a  Madonna  Assunta  carved  in  wood  and  plaster, 
and  daintily  painted  as  it  seems  he  loved  to  do,  you  have 
perhaps  the  most  charming  work  that  has  come  from  his 
bottega.  He  was  not  a  great  sculptor,  but  he  had  seen 
the  vineyards  round  about,  he  had  wandered  in  the  little 
woods  at  the  city  gates,  he  had  watched  the  dawn  run  down 
the  valleys,  and  the  wind  that  plays  with  the  olives  was  his 


422     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

friend.  He  has  loved  all  that  is  delicate  and  lovely,  the 
wings  of  angels,  the  hands  of  children,  the  long  blown  hair  of 
St.  John  in  his  Death  of  the  Virgin,  the  eyelids  that  have 
fallen  over  the  eyes.  He  is  full  of  grace,  and  his  virtues  seem 
to  me  to  be  just  those  which  Lucca  herself  possesses. 
Hidden  away  between  the  mountains,  between  the  plains  and 
the  sea,  she  achieved  nothing,  or  almost  nothing,  Castracani 
for  a  moment  forced  her  into  the  pell-mell  of  awakened  Italy, 
but  with  his  death,  and  certainly  with  the  fall  of  the  House  of 
Guinigi,  she  returns  to  herself,  to  her  own  quiet  heart,  which 
is  enough  for  her.  This  one  sculptor  is  almost  her  sole  con- 
tribution to  Italian  art,  but  she  was  content  that  his  works 
should  scatter  her  ways,  and  that  hidden  away  in  her  churches 
his  shy  flowers  should  blossom.  Civitali  and  S.  Zita,  they 
are  the  two  typical  Lucchesi ;  they  sum  up  a  city  composed 
of  such  as  Giovanni  Arnolfini  and  his  wife,  whom  Van  Eyck 
painted,  that  great  bourgeoisie  which  made  Italy  without 
knowing  it,  and,  unconcerned  while  the  great  men  and  the 
rabble  fought  in  the  wars  or  lost  their  lives  in  a  petty  revolu- 
tion, were  eager  only  to  be  let  alone,  that  they  might  continue 
their  labour  and  gather  in  wealth.  And  of  them  history  is 
silent,  for  they  made  her. 


XXX 

OVER  THE  GARFAGNANA 

SO  in  the  long  August  days,  that  are  so  fierce  in  the  city, 
I  sought  once  more  the  hills,  the  hills  that  are  full  of 
songs,  those  songs  which  in  Italy  have  grown  with  the  flowers 
and  are  full  of  just  their  wistful  beauty,  their  expectancy  and 
sweetness. 

"  Fiorin  di  grano, 
Lasciatemi  cantar,  che  allegra  sono, 
Ho  rifatto  la  pace  col  mio  damo." 

There  in  the  Garfagnana,  as  I  wandered  up  past  Castelnuovo 
to  the  little  village  of  Piazza  al  Serchio,  and  then  through 
the  hills  to  Fivizanno,  that  wonderful  old  town  in  a  cup  of 
the  mountains,  I  heard  the  whole  drama  of  love  sung  by 
the  *'  vaghe  montanine  pastorelle "  in  the  chestnut  woods  or 
on  the  high  lawns  where  summer  is  an  eternal  spring. 

"  O  rosa  !  O  rosa  !  O  rosa  gentillina  ! 
Quanto  liella  t*  ha  fatta  la  tua  mamma  ! 
T'  ha  fatto  bella,  poi  t'  ha  messo  un  fiore ; 
T'  ha  messo  alia  finestra  a  far  I'amore, 
T'  ha  fatto  bella  e  t'  ha  messo  una  rosa : 
T'  ha  messo  alia  finestra  a  far  la  sposa," 

sings  the  young  man  one  morning  as  he  passes  the  cottage 
of  his  beloved,  and  she,  scarcely  fourteen,  goes  to  her  mother, 
weeping  perhaps — 

"  Mamma,  se  non  mi  date  il  mio  Beppino, 
Vo'  andar  pel  mondo,  e  mai  piu  vo'  tornare 
Se  lo  vedarsi  quanto  gli  h  bellino ; 
O  mamma,  vi  farebbe  innamorare, 
42.S 


424     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

E'  porta  un  giubboncin  di  tre  colori, 

E  si  chiama  Beppino  Ruba — cori, 

E'  porta  un  giubboncin  rosso  incarnato, 

E  si  chiama  Beppino  innamorato  : 

E'  porta  un  giubboncin  di  mezza  lana  ; 

Quest'  e  Beppino,  ed  io  son  la  sua  dama." 

Then  the  damo  comes  to  serenade  his  mistress — 

"Vengo  di  notte  e  vengo  appassionato, 
Vengo  nell'ora  del  tuo  be!  dormire. 
Se  ti  risveglio,  faccio  un  gran  peccato 
Perche  non  dormo,  e  manco  fo  dormire. 
Se  ti  risveglio,  un  gran  peccato  faccio : 
Amor  non  dorme,  c  manco  dormir  lascia." 

And  she,  who  doubtless  has  heard  it  all  in  her  little  bed,  sings 
on  the  morrow — 

"Oh,  quanto  tempo  I'ho  desiderate 
Un  damo  avev  che  fosse  sonatore  ! 
Eccolo  qua  che  Dio  me  I'ha  mandato 
Tutto  coperto  di  rose  e  viole ; 
Eccolo  qua  che  vien  pianin  pianino, 
A  capo  basso,  e  suona  il  violino." 

Then  they  sing  of  Saturday  and  Sunday — 

"  Quando  sari  sabato  sera,  quando? 
Quando  sard  domenica  mattina, 
Che  vedr6  I'amor  mio  spasseggiando, 
Che  vedr6  quella  faccia  pellegrina, 
Che  vedr6  quel  bel  volto,  e  quel  bel  viso, 
O  fior  d'arancio  c61to  in  paradiso  ! 
Che  vedro  quel  bel  viso  e  quel  bel  volto, 
O  fior  d'arancio  in  paradiso  c61to  ! " 

So  all  the  summer  long  they  play  at  love ;  but  with  October 
Beppino  must  go  to  the  Maremma  with  the  herds,  and  she 
thinks  over  this  as  the  time  draws  near — 

"E  quando  io  penso  a  quelle  tante  miglia 
E  che  voi,  amor  mio  I'avete  a  fare, 
Nelle  mie  vene  il  sangue  si  rappiglia 
Tutti  li  sensi  miei  sento  mancare  ; 
E  li  sento  mancare  a  poco  a  poco. 
Come  la  cera  in  suH'ardente  foco : 
E  li  sento  mancare  a  dramma,  a  dramma, 
Come  la  cera  in  sull'  ardente  fiamma." 


OVER  THE  GARFAGNANA  425 

Or  again,  with  half  a  sob — 

"Come  volete  faccia  che  non  pianga 
Sapendo  che  da  voi  devo  partire  ? 
E  lu  bello  in  Maremma  ed  io  'n  montagna  ! 
Chesla  partenza  mi  fari  morire.  ..." 

And  at  last  she  watches  him  depart,  winding  down  the  long 
roads — 

"  E  vedo  e  vedo  e  non  vedo  chi  voglio, 

Vedo  le  foglie  di  Ionian  tremare. 

E  vedo  lo  mio  aniorc  in  su  quel  poggio, 

E  al  piano  mai  lo  vedo  calare. 

O  pogtjio  traditor,  che  ne  farele? 

O  vivo  o  morto  me  lo  renderete 

O  poggio  traditor,  che  ne  farai  ? 

O  vivo  o  morto  me  lo  renderai." 

Then  she  dreams  of  sending  a  letter  in  verses,  which  recall, 
how  closely,  the  Swallow  song  of  "  The  Princess  " — 

"  O  Rondinella  che  passi  monti  e  colli 
Se  trovi  I'amor  mio,  digli  che  venga 
E  digli :  son  rimasta  in  questi  poggi 
Come  rimane  la  smarrita  agnella 
E  digli :  son  rimasta  senza  nimio 
Come  I'al  bero  secco  senza  '1  cimo. 
E  digli :  son  rimasta  senza  damo 
Come  rallxiro  secco  senza  il  ramo. 
E  digli :  son  rimasta  abbandonata 
Come  I'erlietta  secca  in  sulle  prata." 

At  length  she  sends  a  letter  with  the  help  of  the  village  scrivener, 
and  in  time  gets  an  answer — 

"  Salutatemi,  bella,  lo  scrivano  ; 
Non  lo  conosco  e  non  so  chi  si  sia. 
A  me  mi  pare  un  poeta  sovrano 
Tanto  gli  ^  sperto  nella  poesia  ..." 

Signor  Tigri  in  his  excellent  collection  of  Canti  Toscarti,  from 
which  I  have  quoted,  gives  some  examples  too  of  these  letters 
and  their  replies,  but  they  are  too  long  to  set  down  here. 

With  spring  the  lover  returns.  You  may  see  the  girls 
watching  for  the  lads  any  day  of  spring  in  those  high  far 
woods  through  which  the  roads  wind  down  to  the  plains. 


426    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

*'  Eccomi,  bella,  che  son  gii  venuto 
Che  li  sospiri  tuoi  m'hanno  chiamato, 
E  tu  credevi  d'avernii  perduto 
Dal  ben  che  ti  volevo  son  tomato 
Quando  son  morto,  mi  farai  un  gran  pianto  ; 
Dirai :  e  morto  chi  mi  amava  tanto  ! 
Quando  son  morto,   un  gran  pianto  farai 
Padrona  del  mio  cor  sempre  sarai." 

Then  in  the  early  summer  days  the  promises  are  given,  and 
long  and  long  before  autumn  the  good  priest  marries  Beppino 
to  his  Annuziatina,  and  doubtless  they  live  happy  ever  after  in 
those  quiet  and  holy  places. 

It  is  into  this  country  of  happiness  you  come,  a  happiness 
so  vaguely  musical,  when,  leaving  Lucca  in  the  summer  heat, 
you  climb  into  the  Garfagnana.  For  to  your  right  Bagni  di 
Lucca  lies  under  Barga,  with  its  church  and  great  pulpit ;  and 
indeed,  the  first  town  you  enter  is  Borgo  a  Mozzano  by 
Serchio ;  then,  following  still  the  river,  you  come  to  Gallicano, 
and  then  by  a  short  steep  road  to  Castelnuovo  di  Garfagnana 
at  the  foot  of  the  great  pass.  The  mountains  have  clustered 
round  you,  bare  and  threatening,  and  though  you  be  still  in 
the  woods  it  is  their  tragic  nudity  you  see  all  day  long,  full 
of  the  disastrous  gestures  of  death,  that  can  never  change  or 
be  modified  or  recalled.  It  is  under  these  lonely  and  desolate 
peaks  that  the  road  winds  to  Piazza  al  Serchio. 

Castelnuovo  is  a  little  city  caught  in  a  bend  of  Serchio, 
which  it  spans  by  a  fantastic  high  bridge  that  leaps  across  the 
shrunken  torrent.  A  mere  huddle  of  mediaeval  streets  and 
piazzas  in  an  amphitheatre  of  mountains,  its  one  claim  on  our 
notice  is  that  here  is  a  good  inn,  kept  by  a  strange  tragical 
sort  of  man  with  a  beautiful  wife,  the  only  sunshine  in  that 
forbidding  place.  She  lies  there  like  a  jewel  among  the 
inhuman  rocks,  and  Serchio  for  ever  whispers  her  name. 
Here  too,  doubtless,  came  Ariosto,  most  serene  of  poets, 
when  in  1522  he  was  sent  to  suppress  an  insurrection  in  the 
Garfagnana.  But  even  Ariosto  will  not  keep  you  long  in 
Castelnuovo,  since  she  whom  he  would  certainly  have  sung, 
and  whose  name  you  will  find  in  his  poem,  cannot  hold  you 


OVER  THE  GARFAGNANA  427 

there.  So  you  follow  the  country  road  up  stream,  a  laughing, 
leaping  torrent  in  September,  full  of  stones  longing  for  rain, 
towards  Camporgiano. 

It  is  very  early  in  the  morning  maybe,  as  you  climb 
out  of  the  shadow  and  receive  suddenly  the  kiss  of  the 
morning  sun  over  a  shoulder  of  the  great  mountains,  a  kiss 
like  the  kiss  of  the  beloved.  From  the  village  of  Piazza  al 
Serchio,  where  the  inn  is  rough  truly  but  pulito^  it  is  a  climb 
of  some  six  chilometri  into  the  pass,  where  you  leave  the 
river,  then  the  road,  always  winding  about  the  hills,  runs  level 
for  four  miles,  and  at  last  drops  for  five  miles  into  Fivizzano. 
All  the  way  the  mountains  stand  over  you  frighteningly 
motionless  and  threatening,  till  the  woods  of  Fivizzano,  that 
magical  town,  hide  you  in  their  shadow,  and  evening  comes 
as  you  climb  the  last  hill  that  ends  in  the  Piazza  before  the 
door  of  the  inn. 

Here  are  hospitality,  kindness,  and  a  welcome ;  you  will 
get  a  great  room  for  your  rest,  and  the  salone  of  the  palace, 
for  palace  it  is,  for  your  sojourn,  and  an  old-fashioned  host 
whose  pleasure  is  your  comfort,  who  is,  as  it  were,  a  daily 
miracle.  He  it  will  be  who  will  make  your  bed  in  the 
chamber  where  Grand  Duke  Leopold  slept,  he  will  wait  upon 
you  at  dinner  as  though  you  were  the  Duke's  Grace  herself, 
and  if  your  sojourn  be  long  he  will  make  you  happy,  and  if 
your  stay  be  short  you  will  go  with  regret.  For  his  pride  is 
your  delight,  and  he,  unlike  too  many  more  famous  Tuscans, 
has  not  forgotten  the  past.  Certainly  he  thinks  it  not 
altogether  without  glory,  for  he  has  carved  in  marble  over 
your  bed  one  of  those  things  which  befell  in  his  father's  time. 
Here  it  is — 

*'  Qui  stette  per  tre  giorni 
Nel  Settembre  del  MDCCCXXXII 
Leopoldo  II  Granduca  di  Toscana 
E  i  fratelli  Cojari  da  Fivizzano 
L'imagine  dell'  Otlimo  Principi  vi  possero 
Perch^  rimanesse  ai  posteri  mcmoria 
Che  la  loro  casa  fu  nobilitata 
Dalle  presenza  dell'  ospite  aiigusto." 


428     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 

But  nature  had  enobled  the  House  of  Cojari  already.  There 
all  day  long  in  the  pleasant  heat  the  fountain  of  Cosimo  iii 
plays  in  the  Piazza  outside  your  window,  cooling  your  room 
with  its  song.  And,  indeed,  in  all  Tuscany  it  would  be  hard 
to  find  a  place  more  delightful  or  more  lovely  in  which  to 
spend  the  long  summer  that  is  so  loath  to  go  here  in  the 
south.  Too  soon,  too  soon  the  road  called  me  from  those 
meadows  and  shadowy  ways,  the  never-ending  whisper  of  the 
woods,  the  sound  of  streams,  the  song  of  the  mountain 
shepherd  girls,  the  quiet  ways  of  the  hills. 

It  was  an  hour  after  sunrise  when  I  set  out  for  Fosdinovo 
of  the  Malaspina,  for  Sarzana,  for  Spezia,  for  England.  The 
way  lies  over  the  rivers  Aulella  and  Bardine,  through  Soliero 
in  the  valley,  through  Ceserano  of  the  hills.  Thence  by  a 
way  steep  and  dangerous  I  came  into  the  valley  of  Bardine, 
only  to  mount  again  to  Tendola  and  at  last  to  Foce  Cuccii, 
where  on  all  sides  the  valleys  filled  with  woods  fell  away  from 
me,  and  suddenly  at  a  turning  of  the  way  I  spied  out 
FosdinoVo,  lordly  still  on  its  bastion  of  rock,  guarding  Val  di 
Magra,  looking  towards  Luna  and  the  sea. 

Little  more  than  an  eyrie  for  eagles,  Fosdinovo  is  an 
almost  perfect  fortress  of  the  Middle  Age.  It  glowers  in 
the  sun  like  a  threat  over  the  ways  that  now  are  so  quiet, 
where  only  the  bullocks  dragging  the  marble  from  Carrara  pass 
all  day  long  from  Massa  to  Spezia,  from  the  valley  to  the  sea. 

It  was  thence  for  the  first  time  for  many  months  I  looked 
on  a  land  that  was  not  Tuscany.  Already  autumn  was  come 
in  that  high  place ;  a  flutter  of  leaves  and  the  wind  of  the 
mountains  made  a  sad  music  round  about  the  old  walls,  which 
had  heard  the  voice  of  Castruccio  Castracani,  whose  gates 
he  had  opened  by  force.  And  then,  as  I  sat  there  above  the 
woods  towards  evening,  from  some  bird  passing  overhead  there 
fell  a  tiny  feather,  whiter  than  snow,  that  came  straight  into  my 
hand.  Was  it  a  bird,  or  my  angel,  whose  beautiful,  anxious 
wings  trembled  lest  I  should  fall  in  a  land  less  simple  than  this  ? 


INDEX 


Adewlatus,  277 

Agostino  di  Duccio,  290 

Alberli,  Leon,  220,  355 

Albertinelli,  320 

Alessi,  Galeazzo,  26,  32,  33 

Angelico,  Beato,  208-211,  303-305, 

313-314,  347,  348 
Apuan  Alps,  76 
Areola,  57 
Amolfo  di  Cambio,  163,  164,  170, 

174,  185,  276 
Amolfo  Fiorentino,  278 
Avenza,  65 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  426 
Baldovinetti,  261,  274,  293 
Bandinelli,  163,  171,  178,  297 
Barga,  426 

Bartolommeo,  Frate,  337-339 
Bellini,  Giovanni,  327 
Benedetto  da  Maiano,  294,  389 
Benedetto  da  Rovczzano,  252,  253, 

295 
Benozzo,  Gozzoli,  115-116,  201-202 
Bertoldo  di  Giovanni,  289 
Bibbiena,  373 
Biduino,  135,  277 
Boccaccio,  347,  353-354,  358 
Bonnanus,  in,  277 
Borgo  a  Mozzano,  426 
Borgo  S.  Lorenzo,  384 
Botticelli,  146,   164,  252,  307-309, 

316-319,  358 
Bracco,  Passo  di,  46 
Brunellcsco,     136,    178-179,    237, 

239,  241,  259,  268,  283 
Buggiano,  404 
Byron,  48,  132 


Calci,  134-135 
Camaldoli,  371-373 


420 


Camogli,  43 
Campaldino,  158,  370 
Capraja,  147 
Carpaccio,  327 
Carrara,  65-70 

S.  Andrea,  65 

Quarries,  66-70 
Cascina,  134-135 
Casentino,  366-384 

Bibbiena,  373 

Camaldoli,  371-373 

Campaldino,  370 

Campo  Lombardo,  370 

Castel  Castagnajo,  370 

Falterona,  368-369 

La  Verna,  370,  373-384 

Poppi,  369,  371 

Porciano,  369 

Pratovecchio,  370 

Komena,  369 

Stia,  367-368 

The  way  to,  366-367 

Vallombrosella,  370 

Vallucciole,  370 
Castagno,  384 
Castagno,    Andrea  del,   237,    259, 

262 
Castel  del  Bosco,  137 
Castelfranco,  138 
Castelnuovo  di    Garfagnana,    423, 

426 
Castelnuovo  di  Magra,  58 
Castracani,  Castruccio,  58,  65,  405- 

412,  421,  428 
Cellini,  Benvenuto,    156,   165-166, 

241,  297 
Cervara,  45 
Chiavari,  45 
Children  in  Italy,  26 
Cimabue,  222-223,  256,  301 
Cino  da  Pistoja,  397,  399-400 


430    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 


Ciufiagni,  282 

Civitali,  Matteo,  416-419 

Columbus,  19-20 

Consuma  Pass,  362 

Corbignano,  358 

Correggio,  330 

Corsica,  10,  12 

Country   Life,   Love   of,    352-353, 

355-356 
Crusades,  10,  11,  12 

Dante,  157,  384,  393-395  et passim 
Desiderio  da  Settignano,  222,  230, 

294 
Dicomano,  382 
Donatello,  72,   126,  140,  155,  166, 

172,  177,  181,  182,  189,  190, 

230,  237,  241,  243,  283-289, 

386 
Doria,  the,  13,  15,  16,  20-23,  28,  45 
Duccio  of  Siena,  156,  222,  321 

Empoli,  142-145 

Evelyn's  approach  to  Genoa,  3 

Faggiuola,  Uguccione  della,  58 
Falterona,  368-369 
Ferrucci,  Andrea,  400 
Fiesole,  157,  346-352 

S.  Ansano,  348 

Badia,  347-348 

S.  Domenico,  347 

Duomo,  351 

S.  Francesco,  352 

Palazzo  Pretorio,  352 

Scavi,  352 

The  way  to,  346 

View  from,  352 
Fivizzano,  423,  427 
Florence,  150-359 

Albizzi,  the,  150-154 

S.  Antonino,  211-213 

Beata  Villana,  223 

Boboli  gardens,  270 

Bocca  degli  Al»ti,  158 

Bridges,  157,  219,  268 

Buondelmonti,  158 

Campaldino,  158 

Campanile,  the,  155,  180-181 

Capponi,  Piero,  215 

Charles  viii.  in,  215 

Churches — 

S.  Ambrogio,  257 


Florence — Churches — continued 
SS.  Annunziata,  259 
SS.  Apostoli,  253 
S.  Appolonia,  262 
Badia,  254-255 
Baptistery,  155,  170-173 
Camuine,  264 
S.  Caterina,  262 
Chiostro  dello  Scalzo,  262 
S.  Croce,  228-238 

Chapels,  232-235 

Choir,  236 

Cloisters,  237 

Museo,  237 

Sacristy,  233 
S.  Donato  a  Torri,  251 
Duomo,  155,  174-180 

Best  aspect  of,  155 

Character  of,  174-176 

Nave,  aspect  of,  176-177 
S.  Felice,  271 

S.  Frediano  in  Castello,  267 
S.  Jacopo,  264 
S.  Lorenzo,  155,  239-248 

Laurentian  library,  244 

New  Sacristy,  246 

Old  Sacristy,  242 
S.  Lucia  sul  Prato,  251 
S.  Marco,  206-211 
S.  Maria  degli  Angioli,  259 
S.  Maria  degli  Innocenti,  261 
S.      Maria      Maddalena      de' 

Pazzi,  257 
S.    Maria  Novella,   156,  219- 
227 

Chapels,  222-227 

Facade,  221 
S.  Mmiato,  157,  271-274 
Misericordia,  155 
Ognisanti,  250-252 
S.  Onofrio,  262-263 
Or    San    Michelc,    155,    185- 

193 
S.  Piero  Maggiore,  256 
S.  Piero  Scheraggio,  187 
S.  Salvatore,  157,  275 
S.  Salvi,  263 
S-  Simone,  256 
S.  Spirito,  268-269 
S.  Stefano,  254 
S.  Trinita,  252-253 
Corso  Donati,  158,  186,  263 
Duke  of  Athens,  188-189 


INDEX 


431 


Florence — continued 

Farinata  degli  Uberti,  158 

Gates — 

Porta  Alia  Croce,  153 
S.  Frediano,  268 
S.  Giorgio,  275 
S.  Miniato,  275 
S.  Niccola,  157,  274 
Romana,  270 
Guilds,  187,  188,  189,  194 
Ilumiliati,  251 
Laudesi,  185,  187,  188,  260 
Liberty  in  Florence,  245-246 
Loggia  de'  Lanzi,  156,  162,  163, 

164-166 
Lung'  Arno,  156,  157 
Marsilio  Ficino,  200 
Medici,  the — 

Alessandro,  159,  16 1,  163 
Cosimo,    153,    159,    196-202, 

206-207,  242 
Cosimo  I.,  159,  162 
Ferdinando  11.,  199 
Gian  Gastone,  159 
Giovanni,  159 
Giovanni  di   Bicci,    159,   195, 

243 

Giulio,  159 

Guiliano,  159,  203 

Ippolito,  159 

Lorenzino,  159 

Lorenzo,    159,    164,   202-205, 
214,  246 

Piero,  155,  159 

Piero  the  exile,  159,  163 

Salvestro,  194 
Mercato  Nuovo,  156 
Montaperti,  158 
Monte  Senario,  260 
Museums — 

Accademia,  298-309 

Bargello,  the,  276-297 

Opera  del  Duomo,  181-184 

Pitti  Palace,  232-345 

Uffizi,  310-331 

The  curse  of,    182-184,  300- 
301 
Neri  and  Bianchi,  186 
Niccol6  Uzzano,  195 
Oltr'  Arno,  264-275 
Ospedale  degli    Innocenti,    259, 
261 


Florence — ccmtinuea 
Palazzi — 

Albizzi,  153 

Altoviti,  154,  253 

Antinori,  156 

Bargello,  see  Museums 

Bartolini  Salimbeni,  253 

Buondelmonle,  253 

Corsini,  252 

Davanzati,  156 

Falconieri,      see     Opera      del 
Duomo,  under  Museums 

Frescobaldi,  264 

Guadagni,  269 

Nonfinito,  154 

Pazzi,  154 

del  Podestii',  see  Bargello 

Riccardi,  194-205 
Cappela,  201-202 

Ricasoli,  252 

Spini,  253 

Strozzi,  156 

Torrigiani,  156 

Uffizi,  see  under  Museums 

Uguccione,  254 

Vecchio,  156,  161,  162-165 
Pazzi,  154,  237,  253 
Piazzas — 

SS.  Annunziata,  259 

S.  Croce,  228 

Duomo,  155,  169-184 

Limbo,  253 

S.  Lorenzo,  155 

S.    Maria   Novella,    156,  219, 
220 

S.  Piero,  256 

Signoria,  156,  1 6 1- 1 68 

S.  Trinity,  156,  253 

Vittorio  Emanuele,  250 
Pico  della  Mirandola,  164 
Pitti,  the  family  of,  204,  332-335 
Savonarola,      156,      159,      161, 
164-165,  206,  211,  213-218, 

245 

Soderini,  204 

Streets — 

delle  Belle  Donne,  156 
Borgo  AUegri,  256 
Borgo  degli  Albizzi,  153 
Borgo  SS.  Apostoli,  253-254 
Boigo  S.  Jacopo,  264 
Borgo  S.  Lorenzo,  155 
Calzaioli,  155,  162,  219 


432     FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 


Florence — Streets — contimud 

Cerretani,  156 

Corso,  15s 

Lambertesca,  253-254 

Maggio,  268 

For  S.  Maria,  187,  254 

Porta  Rossa,  156,  219 

Proconsolo,  154,  155 

dei  Serpi,  156 

Tornabuoni,  155,  156 

Viale  dei  Colli,  270 
Foce  La  (di  Spezia),  46 
Foce  La  (di  Carrara),  6g 
Fosdinovo,  58,  428 

Gaddi,  Agnolo,  236,  301,  387 
Gaddi,  Taddeo,  180,  i88,  232,  233, 

301 
Garfagnana  Pass,  423-428 
Genoa,  1-40 

A  living  city,  6,  31,  32 

Acqua  Sole,  31 

Alfonso  of  Aragon,  17-18 

Approach  to,  I-4 

Arcades,  23 

Bank  of  S.  George,  14,  15,  24-25 

Boccanegra,  Doge,  15,  16,  17,  37 

Guglielmo,  14,  24 
Boucicault,  17 
Briglia,  the,  20 
Castelletto,  the,  17,  20 
Catino,  the,  11,  12 
Cemetery,  39-40 
Charles  v  and,  20,  21 
Churches — 

S.  Agostino,  9 

S.  Ambrogio,  28 

Duomo(S.  Lorenzo),  11,  26-27 

S.  Fruttuoso,  28,  45 

S.  Giovanni  di  Pre,  38 

S.  Maria  di  Castello,  9 

S.  Matteo,  28-30 

S.  Siro,  10,  16,  18,  35 

S.  Sisto,  9 

S.  Stefano,  9 
Columbus,  8,  19 
Cross  of  S.  George,  1 2 
Crusades,  7,  8,  10,  1 1 
Doria,   the,   13,   15,   16,  28,  29, 

45 
Doria,  Andrea,  13,  21-23 
Embriaco,  11-12 
Tower  of,  14 


Genoa — continued 

Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  10,  1 1 
Grimaldi,  13 
History  of,  4-23 
Libro  d'Oro,  21 
Loggia  dei  Banchi,  26 
Moors,  expedition  against,  12 
Palaces — 

Adorno,  32 

Balbi,  36 

Bianco,  35 

Cambiaso,  32 

Carega,  32 

della  Casa,  30 

Doria,  30,  37 

Doria,  Giorgio,  32 

Ducale,  27 

Durazzo  Pallavicini,  36 

Gambaro,  32 

Giorgio  Doria,  32 

Municipale,  32 

Negrone,  31 

Pallavicini,  30 

Parodi,  32 

Rosso,  33 

Serra,  32 

Spinola  (via  Garibaldi),  32 

Spinola  (S.  di  S.  Catrina),  31 

della  Universiti,  36 
Piazzas — 

Banchi,  26 

Deferrari,  28 

Fontane  Marose,  20,  32 

Sarzana,  38 
Pictures  in  Genoa — 

Botticelli  (?),  32 

David  (Gerard),  35 

Domenichino,  36 

Guido  Reni,  28 

Luca  Cambiasi,  32 

Moretto,  33 

Murillo,  35 

Ribera,  35,  36 

Rubens,  28,  32,  35,  36 

Ruysdael,  35 

Tintoretto,  36 

Vandyck,  32,  33,  35,  36 

Veronese,  32 

Zurbaran,  35 
Porta  S.  Andrea,  13 
Ramparts,  26,  38 
Sforza,  the,  18,  19 
Slums  of,  38 


INDEX 


433 


Genoa — continued 
Streets — 
Arcades,  23 
Balbi,  31,  36 
Cairoli,  31 
Garibaldi,  32 
Salita  di  S.  Caterina,  31 
Strada  degli  Orefici,  26 
Towers,  I3i  M 
Vandyck  in,  33-35 
Visconti  in,  I7i  '^ 
War  with  Pisa,  12,  15,  29 
War  with  Venice,  14,  16,  I7)  28, 
29 
Gentile  da  Fabriano,  1 19,  303,  323 
Gerini  Niccola  di  Pietro,  301 
Gherardesca  Conte  Ugolino  della, 

15 
Ghiberti,   170,  171,   172,  189,  256, 

282-283 
Ghirlandajo,     154,    156,    224-227, 

252,  261 
Giorgione,  328,  341-342 
Giotto,    180,    181,   222,  227,   229, 

233.  234.  235.  301 
Giovanni  da  Bologna,  166,  190,  297 
Gruamone,  277,  398 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline,  13,  158 
Guglielmo,  Fra,  125,  398 
Guidi,  Conti,  369,  etc. 
Guido  da  Como,  277 

Humiliati,  251 


Inghirami,  348 

Italy,  approach  to,  1-4 

Jacopo  della  Querela,  281,  416,  419 
Janus,  7 

Lastra,  147-148 
Laudesi,  185 
Laurentian  Library,  244 
La  Verna,  370,  373-3^4 
Leonardo,  191 
Lerici,  47-53 

Lippi  (Fra  Lippo),  261,  265,  305, 
306,  316,  389-392,  419 

Lippi,  Filippino,  224,  255,  269,  329 

Livorno,  129-133 
Monte  Nero,  132 

Lorenretli,  the,  322 

I^rcnzo  di  Credi,  269,  347,  400 

28 


Lucca,  58,  404-422 

Castruccio  Castracanc,  405-412, 

421 
Churches — 

Duomo,  414-416 
S.  Francesco,  421 
S.  Frediano,  419 
S.  Giovanni,  414 
S.  Michele  in  Borgo,  418 
S.  Romano,  421 
Matteo  Civiuli,  416,  419 
Museo,  421-422 
Walls,  413 
S.  ZiU,  420-421 
Luna,  47-53 
Lunigiana,  57-76 

Magni,  Villa,  48 
Magra,  the,  57,  58 
Maiano,  356 
Malaspina,  58 
Manetti,  Gianozzo,  157 
Mantegna,  330 
Marco  Polo,  16,  29 
Martini,  Simone,  119,  322 
Masaccio,  222,  265-267,  302 
Masolino,  265-266 
Massa,  69-71 
Matilda  Contessa,  158 
Meloria,  battle  of,  1 5 
Melczzo  da  Forli,  324 
Michelangelo,  155,  I57.   «63.   »78, 
199,  229,  240,  246-248,  262, 
273.  296-297,  320 

Michelozzo,     164.    189,    199.    20°. 
207,  233,  261,  274,  386 

Mino   da   Fiesole,    I45»  233.  257. 
295.  351.  388 

Monaco,  Lorenzo,  252,  302,  313 

Monsummano,  404 

Montecatini,  404 

Montenero,  132 

Montelupo,  145-146 

Montignoso,  71 

Moretto,  330 

Moroni,  330 

Nanni    di   Banco,    155,    180,    189, 

190,  281 
Ncri  and  Bianchi,  186 
Ncivi,  43 
Niccola,  58 


434    FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 


Niccolo  d'Arezzo,  281 
Nicholas  v,  59-62,  208 

Ognabene,  401 
Oratorio  della  Vannella,  358 
Orcagna,   164,  188,  191-193,  226, 
302 

Pandolfini,  Agnolo,  353,  355 

Paris  Bordone,  329 

Perugino,  Pietro,  257-259,  305-306, 

324-326,  347 
Pescia,  404 

Piazza  al  Serchio,  423,  427 
Piero  della  Francesco,  324 
Piero  di  Cosimo,  320 
Piero  di  Giovanni  Tedesco,  280 
Pietro  a  Grado,  S.,  129-130 
Pineta  di  Pisa,  129 
Pineta  di  Viareggio,  75 
Ponocchio,  138 
Pisa,  12,  76-128 
Agnello,  Doge,  icxd,  ioi 
Amalfi,  83 

A^rchbishop  Peter,  81,  82 
Assumption,  Feast  of,  in,  89-92 
Balearic  Islands,  82 
Benozzo  Gozzoii,  115-116,  119 
Bergolini  and  Raspanti,  102 
S.  Bernard  in,  93 
Borgo,  The,  125-126 
Campagnia  di  S.  Michele,   loi- 

102 
Campanile,  77,  84,  116-117 
Campo  Santo,  77,  114-116 
Casa  dei  Trovatelli,  117 
Castniccio  Castracani,  93,  94,  95 
Churches — 
S.  Anna,  118 

Baptistery,  77,  83,  112-I14 
S.  Caterina,  1 18 
Duomo,  77,  80,  81,  109-III 
S.  Francesco,  Ii8 
S.  Frediano,  127 
Madonna  della  Spina,  107,  128 
S.  Maria  Maddalena,  125 
S.  Martino,  128 
S.  Michele  in  Borgo,  125 
S.  Niccola,  107 
S.  Paolo  air  Orto,  123 
S.  Paolo  a  Ripa,  128 
S.  Pierino,  81,  123-125 
S.  Pietro  a  Grado,  1 29- 1 30 


Pisa — Churches — continiud 

S.  Ranieri,  117 
S.  Sepolcro,  128 
S.  Sisto,  127 
S.  Stefano,  126 
Cintola  del  Duomo,  90-92,  119 
Corsica,  83 
Cosimo  I  105 
Crusades,  12,  81 
Divisions    in    Twelfth    Century, 

81  and  note 
Donatello,  126 
Etruscan  Pisa,  79 
Florence,  84,  85 
Galileo,  105 
Gambacorti,   97,   98,    100,    loi, 

102,  104 
Genoa,  83,  86 
Gentile  da  Fabriano,  119 
Ghetardesca,   Ugolino  della,  85, 

86,  87 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline,  84 
Guglielmo  Frate,  125 
History  of,  78-105 
Knights  of  S.  Stephen,  126 
Loggia  dei  Banchi,  107 
Lucca,    79,    82,  84,  85,  86,  93, 

96,98 
Lung'  Arno,  106,  107,  125 
Martini,  Simone,  119 
Meloria,  86 
Montaperti,  85 
Montecatini,  94 
Montefeltro,  Guido  di,  8g 
Museo,  106,  118-120 
Palaces — 

Agostini,  107 

Anziani,  126 

dei  Cavalieri,  126 

del  Comune,  107 

del  Consiglio,  126 

Conventuale,  126 

Gambacorti,  107 

del  Granduca,  107 

Lanfreducci,  107 

del  Podesta,  127 
Palermo,  80 
Palio  and  Ponte,  90,   119,  120- 

'23 
Piazzas — 
dei  Cavalieri,  126 
del  Duomo,  77,  78,   107,  109, 

117 


INDEX 


435 


Pisa — Piazzas — continued 
di  S.  Francesco,  123 
di  S.  Paolo,  123 
Pisano  Giovanni,  118 
Pisano,  Giunta,  117,  I19 
Pisano,  Niccol^,  1 1 3- 1 14,  117 
Ponte  di  Mezzo,  106-107 
Pontc  Solferino,  127 
Porta  Aurea,  127 
Porto  Pisano,  82 
Roman  Pisa,  79 
Salerno,  77,  83 
Torre  Guelfa,  107,  128 
Tower  of  Hunger,  88,  126,  127 
"Triumph  of  Death,"  115 
Uguccione   della   Faggiuola,  92, 

etc. 
University,  127 

Visconti,  84,  85,  86,  96,  98,  100, 
102,  103 
Pistoia,  393-403 
Churches — 
S.  Andrea,  402 
Baptistery,  398 
S.  Bartolomnieo,  401 
S.  Domenico,  403 
Duomo,  398-401 
S.  Francesco  al  Prato,  402 
S.  Giovanni  Evangelista,  398, 

401 
S.  Piero  Maggiore,  403 
S.  Salvadorc,  403 
Origin  of  Pistoia,  393-397 
Palazzo  del  Comune,  398 
Palazzo  Pretorio,  398 
Torre  del  Podesta,  398,  399 
Poggio  Gherardo,  353,  357-358 
Pollaiuolo,  Ant.,  291 
Pontassieve,  362 
Pontedera,  135-136 
Pontevola,  138 
Pontormo,  145 
Poppi,  369 
Porciano,  369 
Porto  Pisano,  12,  129 
Portofino,  43,  44,  45 
Portovenere,  46,  54-56 
Prisons,  position  of,  70 

Rap)allo,  44,  45 
Raphael,  326,  339-341 
Recco,  43 
Riviera  di  Levantc,  41-56 


Robbia  della,  233,  253,  259,  358, 

370,  373,  387,  399 
Robbia     Luca     della,     178,     181, 

182,  253,  274,  289-290 
Romena,  369 
RosscIIino,  Antonio,  144,  231,  257, 

274.  293,  388,  400 
Rossellino,     Benardo,     145,     229, 

293 

Rotta,  137 
Ruta,  44 

S.  Domenico  di  Fiesole,  347 

S.  Ellero,  362 

S.  Francesco,  373-384 

S.  Fruttuoso,  28,  45 

S.  Giovanni  Gualberto,  363 

S.  Godenzo,  384 

S.  Marcello,  404 

S.  Margherita,  45 

S.  Martino  a  Mensola,  356 

S.  Michele  di  Pagana,  45 

S.      Minialo     al     Tedesco,      137, 

138-141 
S.  Romano,  138 
S.  Romualdo,  371-372 
S.  Terenzano,  47-53 
Sacchetti,  353 
Saltino,  362 

Sansovino,  Andrea,  295 
Sarto,  Andrea  del,  261,  262,   263, 

321,  335-337 
Sarzana,  57-64 
Savonarola,    156,    159,    161,    164- 

165,  2C6,  211,  213-218 
Schiavone,  329 
Serchio,  75 
Serravalie,  404 
Sestri  Levante,  46 
Settignano,  358 
Shelley,  48-53,.  73-75 
Simone  Martini,  321-322 
South,  Praise  of  the,  3 
Spezia,  46,  47 
Stagi,  Stagio,  72 
Stamina,  302 
Stia,  367-368 

Tintoretto,  329 

Titian,  328-329,  341-345 

Torano,  66 

Tuscany,  entrance  to,  58 

Tuscany,  the  road  to,  41-56 


436  FLORENCE  AND  NORTHERN  TUSCANY 


Uccello,  Paolo,  177,  227,314-315 

Val  di  Lima,  404 
Val  di  Nievolc,  404 
Val  di  Reno,  404 
Vallombrosa,  360-366 
Vallombrosella,  370 
Vandyck,  32,  33,  35,  36,  45 
Vasari,  164,  229 


Veronese,  329-330 

Verrocchio,    155,    164,    179,    191, 

204,     243,    257,    291-293, 

307   and  note 
Verruca,  136 
Viareggio,  73,  75 
Vicopisano,  136-137 
Vincigliata,  353 
Villa  Palmieri,  347-353 


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